


Surrender

by paxnirvana



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxnirvana/pseuds/paxnirvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>X-Men (2000) movie fusion with comics in order to add Gambit (Remy LeBeau) to post-movie events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on information available from the first X-Men movie only, ignoring the rest completely. It is a relic from the heady days of wild speculation back in 2000 right after the original X-Men movie was released. It was originally posted to FFNET on 1-29-01. So much hope for the franchise! So much fannish excitement! So much Rogue/Logan shipping! *laughs*
> 
> 2011 note: (Ten Years Later) I have compiled all seven originally posted chapters from FF.NET ( putting the optional sex scene back into the main text, and also adding the half of chapter eight that I had finished but never posted ) into this first posted section. I could not resist a little (okay, a lot of) editing to the file either, though no story details have been changed -- it's mostly reining in my terrible orphaned dependent clause abuse.

The first indication Gambit had of something not quite right with the hastily contracted job had been the elegant sign out front of the target: ‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Children’.

He’d noted it when he passed by the location earlier that evening, careful to ride past at a reasonable speed and not slow down. The contact hadn’t mentioned anything about the target being a school – with children – just a genetic research lab. Housed in the basement of an old estate. A private lab funded and run by an extremely wealthy and eccentric professor. The security and design specifications he’d received for the lab itself were daunting. Well, daunting for someone of less than his skill, of course.

Despite his misgivings about the sign, he’d entered the grounds anyway. It was the job. And maybe the old professor was eccentric, but possibly just smart enough to angle his property as an educational institution for tax purposes. Or cover.

It was late at night, of course. The mansion itself was lit only by soft lights in the main entry hall. Probably left on all night, every night. The lush, well-tended grounds were unlit away from the front gate and the long, curving driveway. External security was quite lax in that regard. He followed the memorized diagram to a small outbuilding beyond the basketball court. There it indicated, built into the concrete foundation of the shed, were the outflow grates for a substantial ventilation system. Which was also his way in.

He made his way warily to the small shed. It was surrounded by a three-foot deep path of round gravel, as the map had shown. He crossed the rock slowly, taking care to make as little sound as possible, pausing only a moment to examine the heavy slatted grates set around the raised base of building. They were louvered. Gimbaled. Closed at the moment, but clearly meant to be opened when ventilation was required below ground. He paused at the shed door and in seconds had opened the sturdy but practically useless padlock before he stepped up and slipped inside, closing the door behind himself.

There, his eyes took only a blink to adjust to the darkness. He saw the heavy grated cover in the floor immediately. It looked like a drain in the center of the sloped floor, for rinsing off the concrete. But spinning the grating, according to his briefing, separated a recessed hatch that lifted up to allow access to the real complex below.

He glanced around once before he approached his goal. The rest of the shed was littered with garden tools, potting soil, neatly stacked pots and other gardening supplies. The only odd feature was a trio of indicator lights above the door. He paused to examine it, flipping through his briefing mentally to try to place it in the systems he’d been warned about. One light currently glowed green, but he saw yellow and red as well, set in the order of a street light. Some kind of staged alarm? He saw no sensors, no obvious system to indicate the lights purpose. To be certain, he carefully checked the grate itself. It was clear of all save an access sensor, which he swiftly and easily bypassed in order to convince any monitoring system that it was still closed before spinning and lifting it out of the way. Below him yawned a deep shaft complete with rungs imbedded in the concrete walls. Faint light glowed into the top of the shaft from the louvers set in the foundation of the shed, obscuring the bottom of the shaft from his sight.

He listened for a moment but heard nothing but the normal sounds of night outside.

Satisfied, he scrambled as quickly down to the bottom as silence would allow, after carefully closing the hatch behind him. The shaft itself was long, forty feet easily, but finally ended in a narrow concrete room where a bank of high-powered fans covered at least fifteen feet square of the lowest section of wall. A little light came faintly through the fans, but he couldn’t see into the room beyond. Whatever they ventilated from down here, it would be dangerous to be caught in the shaft when the system activated, he realized with a frown. He opened the pressure-sealed maintenance door in the wall and slipped out into a narrow service corridor. Electrical systems, water systems and other liquids-carrying systems lined the walls. He read the warning label clearly displayed on one pipe with astonishment. Jet fuel? What would a genetics lab need with jet fuel?

The door at the far end of the service corridor led into what was marked as a storage chamber on the plans he had memorized. It would be the last private area before entering the more public portions of the lab complex beyond. He entered the dark room, moving gracefully and silently through the shelves and boxes to reach the main door. Which was, as expected, a round door that operated on a fairly noisy pneumatic system. There was no way to avoid making sounds when he opened the door. He crouched down beside it and listened carefully. He had been warned that security was heavy. That no other had ever made it even this far inside before without being discovered. But so far he hadn’t encountered any of the usual detectors: no trip-lasers, no motion detectors, no heat sensors. They simply weren’t there. So why had the others failed?

The main hallway beyond sounded empty. No voices, no footsteps. So much for security patrols. His uneasiness grew.

The job was to retrieve data. He had several specially designed devices for just that purpose. Flash recorders with more gigabytes of storage space than most computer systems. Guaranteed to download to capacity in thirty seconds.

By a dim reddish light, he readied this equipment, pulling the urgent-use mission specific items from the small pack on his back and moving them to the holders integrated in the belt at his waist, on the left. On the right side he kept his own equipment. Strapped to his thighs were the readily accessible lengths of a collapsible staff. He was quite skilled at assembling it in a hurry if he needed it to defend himself.

He never carried a gun. The point was not to need it, to not need to fight. To get in and out with his prize so quickly and so silently that the inhabitants would never even realize he had been there. But he was well able to defend himself, if need be.

After listening closely for at least ten minutes, he finally activated the door. It slid open with a soft, yet distinctive, hiss. He glanced out into the hall, visually confirming that the hallway was empty. There weren’t even any cameras on the walls, another discrepancy in the plans. It was a bare, echoing corridor that led to similar round doorways at either end, with a few set at various points along the hall. A wider area in the center portion sported benches and what looked like lockers.

He slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Moving with cautious grace, he counted doors. Searching for the one he wanted. It was a door at the far end from where he had entered. There would be an elevator shaft before he reached it. And he had just opened the target door when he heard the unmistakable sound of the elevator descending.

No way to make it back to the storage room in time. He slipped inside the dimly lit target room and closed the door behind him. Concealed himself behind a console. Indicator panels on the various machines within glowed, but otherwise the room was dark.

He held still, listening over the sound of his own heartbeat for the approach of whoever it was. A guard? At last?

Instead he was surprised to identify the distinctive sharp click of high heels. Then the door of the room slid open again and the lights came up, bright and strong. He froze, holding his position, grateful for the lenses that mostly protected his eyes from abrupt changes in lighting, but it still stung. He blinked carefully to clear them.

A tall, beautiful woman with deep red hair drawn back from her face in an elaborate twist, offset by a pair of sensible glasses on her nose had come inside. She was wearing a long, sleeveless silk evening gown in dusty black and rhinestone-studded strappy sandals on her feet that clicked on the metal floor as she strode purposefully toward the very bank of machines he crouched behind.

She was muttering to herself, a thoughtful frown marring her forehead, a clipboard filled with papers held in her slender hands.

“If I re-code the nucleotide segments, it should…” she broke off her absent-minded muttering suddenly. Her head lifted and she looked curiously around, head cocked as if listening.

He knew he hadn’t made a sound, though his body had tightened in appreciation of her beauty and he’d pursed his lips in a silent wolf whistle. Never been one to pass up the opportunity to admire beauty. Then he felt it. Something he’d rarely felt before.

Something was actively touching his mental shields.

And with a sinking sense of fatalism, he understood why no one else had ever made it this far.

She was a mutant. Like him.

He watched the woman closely, his gaze narrowed warily, breath all but held. She dropped the clipboard on the console above him, turned around to show him her nearly bare back exposed by the gown, and folded her arms over her chest, rubbing her bare upper arms with her hands as if suddenly chilled. Or apprehensive.

“Is someone in here?” she called, looking at the dim far corners of the room near the door. Away from him. “Logan?”

He remained still, deliberately making his mental shields as soft and non-threatening as he could, yet keeping them strong. The woman shuddered. Then she moved back toward the door. It opened before she could get there, and another woman entered. He had to bite his lip to stifle his sigh of appreciation and dismay. Now there were two lovely ladies in the room with him. Two lovely ladies between him and the door.

But the new entry gave him pause. The first thing he noticed was her hair. Shockingly white and gathered up in a soft fall over her graceful neck. It had been wound with a glittering cascade of delicate amber beads. Like the first woman, she was dressed in an evening gown. This one was dark amber, to match the beads in her hair. And despite the color of her hair, her brown skin was smooth and fresh and warm, her eyes a deep, rich brown. The sleek amber silk draped lovingly over generous curves, the sheath of the dress parting to show flashes of long, smooth thigh as she walked.

“What’s the matter, Jean?” this vision said in a low voice.

The red-head shivered again as she stepped up beside her friend.

“I don’t know,” the woman named Jean said, lowering her glasses to glance around the room in puzzled confusion. “I thought I felt someone in here with me…” The woman with white hair frowned around the apparently empty room as well, then turned back to her friend with a wry smile.

“I came down to convince you to go to bed rather than work,” the amber goddess said, her voice a husky purr, “but if you’re jumping at shadows down here, you’ve probably realized how tired you are. The show did run long, and the kids do get up awfully early even on Saturday.”

The watcher frowned at her words. Kids? Was it really a school then? Or did these beauties have children of their own? The thought gave him a brief pang of regret. Not as strong for the red-head, but the other…

The red-head’s hand shot out suddenly and wrapped around the other woman’s arm. She backed away toward the door, dragging at her friend.

“That’s not… someone is down here, ‘Ro,” she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “And I can’t get a lock on them!”

“Call the others,” the amber goddess said, her expression firming. Then she backed out of the room with her friend. Neither woman looked scared, in fact they looked very cool. Just justifiably wary. The door slid closed behind them.

He swore silently to himself. She’d detected him, somehow. He wouldn’t hurt them, but of course they had no way of knowing that. Recalling the layout of the lab to mind, he dodged from hiding and ran light-footed for the back of the room. Found the machine he needed and plugged one card into it. Yanked it free as soon as the indicator changed to indicate it was full in the promised thirty seconds. Then slid it back into his pouch. He heard a noise in the hall outside, turned to face the door. Ah well. The contract had requested six data cards worth of data. One would have to do.

He leaped nimbly up on top of a stack of racked machines and tugged one glove off, shoving it securely into his belt. Then he reached up and traced a glowing pink line around the edge of the grill in the air duct overhead with his fingertip. He turned his face away as a small, muffled explosion blew the grill free. He caught it before it could fall to the floor with a clatter and set the grill carefully down beside him on the rack. Then he leaped into the duct, letting his thick Kevlar-reinforced working suit protect him from the sharp edges as he wormed his way inside.

Crawling as fast as the limited space allowed, he followed the ducting toward the storage room. The ventilation shaft was the only other exit aside from the elevators.

//Who are you?// came a whisper in his mind. //Why are you here?// He froze, struggling with his shields. His mind instantly a blank, panicked blur. Not again. Not in his mind.

//Your shields are impressive – I can do little more than speak to you. I read nothing from you. I would greatly like to discuss them with you.//

//Non!// he shot back, adding a sting of outrage to it. He had the brief satisfaction of feeling the other mind – it felt male – wince away. Then he resumed his crawl toward the storage room. If this one had been male, and not the woman who had sensed him somehow, then there was clearly more than one mutant here.

The idea made him distinctly uneasy. He’d only encountered a few other mutants before, that he remembered. And most of them hadn’t been pleasant encounters. And one in particular… he quickly slammed a mental door on the memories that threatened to boil free. He had to concentrate on escape. He moved on.

He was nearly to the storage room, approaching the grate, when the duct in front of him was suddenly pierced by three blades. They slid through the sturdy sheet metal like butter, which yielded with a tortured shriek. He froze, ears ringing.

A low growling sound came from outside the duct, through the slices.

“Gotcha, thief,” came a low, male voice.

“Logan, how can you be sure? I’m still not sensing anyone,” the red-head said from below, her voice wary but firm.

“He’s stopped movin’ but he’s there. I hear ‘im breathing.”

With as much silence as he could muster, he twisted enough to reach his belt. Pulled out his deck of cards. Slid one free. The Joker. It immediately began to glow a faint pink. Then he flicked it through the rent in the duct, following it a half-second later with another.

“What the hell is that?”

Then the first card exploded with a bang. More noise than damage. He hadn’t put much charge in it. There was a hoarse growl of rage, a woman’s startled cry; he heard stumbling, sensed scrambling motion away and he moved. The second card exploded. He dove quickly over the slices in the duct to the grating. A quick charge blew the grill away and he dropped through into the now brightly-lit storage room.

A man with dark hair and a savage expression on his face was shaking his head wildly, clawing at his ears over near the door. Three silver blades protruded from one clenched fist – some kind of weapon. The red-head in the black evening gown was leaning against the round door to the hall where the man had obviously thrown her to get her away from his cards. She was staring at him in shock. He felt something tug at him, like a pull on his legs, but he leaped swiftly away deeper into the room. Her startled gasp followed him, then the dark-haired man charged after him with a snarl.

He reached the door to the service corridor in the rear wall, yanked it open and slammed it closed behind him, giving the inside doorknob a quick charge. Ran for the far end and the fan room beyond. The man behind discovered the glowing knob, dove away with a shout as the knob exploded. He heard a grunt of pain and felt a brief sense of regret.

He hated to hurt anyone on the job. It was the sign of a sloppy thief.

Or the consequence of a set-up. Slow anger began to burn.

He dove through the fan room door, leaping several feet up the ladder to catch a higher rung and get a head start before scrambling away up the shaft. His gloveless hand bled on the rough metal rungs.

He reached the hatch at the top just as he heard a howl of rage from below. Didn’t look down to see, but spun the wheel open and threw the hatch wide with a clang. Rolled out with acrobatic grace and burst through the unlocked door of the shed at full speed. Ran flat out over the elegant grounds. Toward the wall and his waiting motorcycle beyond.

It had been a still summer night before. But somehow the wind had picked up and was whipping wildly through the trees around him. Leaves and dirt flew up to try to blind him. He plunged on. Until a bright flash of light, -- a lightning strike? --, right in front of him blinded him despite the goggles on his face and his contact lenses and sent him spinning away, hands over his streaming eyes, a curse on his lips. Thunder cracked immediately after, loud and close, the shock of it pounding at his skin.

“Stop and I will not harm you!” a woman’s voice called.

The amber goddess. He recognized her husky voice. Turned toward it, his vision still strobing painfully. Furiously tried to blink the blank spots from his eyes, knowing he was helpless until his vision cleared.

“No more!” he cried out, falling to his knees, lifting his hands, fingers spread wide, into the air.

He could see her now, faintly, through the lingering spots, his watering eyes. She stood near the trees, prudently out of reach, white hair flying, amber dress blowing in the wind that came, somehow from behind her.

“Why are you here?” she demanded. He crouched in front of her, slowly lowered his hands to his thighs, and gazed at her as best he could.

“So beautiful,” he said, voice thick with admiration. He palmed one of the rods on his thigh. She seemed flustered a moment by his compliment, but then her lips tightened.

“Who sent you? What were you after?”

He heard someone else approach then, glanced over to see a slender man with brown hair and a strange black mask over his eyes. The newcomer was wearing most of a tuxedo, -- more formal wear -- the white shirt, the pants, a black cummerbund. He held his hand at the side of his head now, touching the mask.

“Answer her,” the man said sharply.

“I do so hate to disappoint a beautiful lady, but… no,” he replied, glancing away from the man and back toward his goddess. She was frowning, her arms crossed over her glorious chest again. He smiled at her, forgetting that his face was covered by a mask. Then he heard the sound of running feet behind him through the wind; he rose to one knee, drawing the staff free of the thigh loops and flicking it out. It snapped together. Too late.

“I got ‘im,” came a harsh snarl, then something hard hit the back of his head and he knew no more.

* * * * *

He woke to painful light, turned his head sharply away before he could stop himself. Then he froze and took stock. He could sense the confines of a room. A large room that echoed and felt hollow. He was back inside the lab again. He lay on top of some kind of padded table. He was restrained. And he had been stripped down to his underwear, the thin material little protection from the chill of the room.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a female voice. “Too bright?” The light dimmed.

“Thanks,” he said faintly. And blinked away the lingering glare to see the beautiful red-headed woman again now dressed in a forest green sweater dress covered by a white lab coat. The glasses were back on her nose. She smiled at him, leaned close.

“Your eyes, they are quite interesting. How far into the infra-red range can you see?”

He tested his limbs carefully. He was strapped quite firmly to the table. The back of his head ached, but his right hand had been bandaged where he had torn skin climbing the ladder.

“If I tell you, will you let me go?” he grinned at her. Then gave her a teasing wink. She blinked at him in surprise.

“No,” came a gruff voice. He turned his head to see the dark-haired man with the bad attitude glaring at him, arms folded over his brawny chest.

“C’est ca,” he breathed softly. No pity in that one. No room for charm either.

“Logan,” the woman said in a reproving tone. “I’m sorry. I’m Doctor Jean Grey, and this is Logan. We mean you no harm, but we do need to know why you broke into our home. And why you downloaded the school’s medical files.”

“School?” He stared at her, feeling the sinking coldness again. Set up, a little voice inside him sang nastily. You’ve been set up again, fool.

“Yes, school,” came another, cultured voice. He turned his head to see an older man, bald and confined to an electric wheelchair, approach. The brown haired man walked beside him, only now red sunglasses had replaced the black mask over his eyes. The masked one looked young, but he had a stern expression on his face. It made him look older. The man in the wheelchair smiled at him in a way he was sure was supposed to be reassuring. “I am Professor Charles Xavier. This is Scott Summers. And you, young man, are a mutant. As are all of us here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied stubbornly. Stared unblinkingly into the cool gray eyes of the professor.

“Really?” the old man said, raising an arched brow in patent disbelief. Then he folded his hands together in front of him. “As Jean has already said, your eyes are quite interesting. Is it painful for you to be without your contact lenses? We thought it best to remove them while you were unconscious. Is it still too bright in here?”

“Non,” he said shortly, even though it was, looking around at the four of them warily. No help there. Not even from the red-head. “Just want to go.”

He felt the brushing on his mental shields again and stiffened, head whipping around to glare at the old man. Certain suddenly.

“It’s you.”

“Ah. Yes. It is. And you have formidable shields, young man,” the professor said quietly. “I assure you we have no intention of harming you. But neither can we allow data on our students to fall into outside hands.”

“Dere really kids here?” he found himself asking. The professor glanced around at the others in mild surprise.

“Yes, of course,” the old gentleman said. And the man seemed far from eccentric, though he dared not lower his shields to be certain. “The sign on the gate isn’t just for show. I have over fifty students boarded here at this time.”

“Shit. It was a set-up.” He glared angrily at the ceiling. “You took the data cards?”

“Yes. And these as well.” That was the brown-haired man in the red glasses. Summers.

His pack of playing cards thumped down on his chest. He smiled grimly at it. So close, yet so far.

“How did you make them explode?," the older man asked with genuine curiosity. "They seem like ordinary cards. Even Logan can detect nothing about them to indicate they have been treated in any way.”

He ignored the question and fixed this Professor Xavier with a sharp gaze. “You let me go, I tell the ones who hired me to back off. They set me up, broke the contract. I can make certain no other independents come after you.”

“So you weren’t sent by the government,” the Professor said, leaning back slightly. “That is some relief at least.”

He heard the hiss of a door opening. Then the clicking of high heels. His amber goddess approached, stopping to look down at him with a hard expression from the other side of the table. He watched her with helpless fascination. Her elegant gown was gone, replaced by a plain scooped neck tee shirt and a pair of tightly fitting jeans. She was still stunning.

“Ah, ma plus belle femme,” he breathed. She raised a snowy brow at him, her expression briefly astonished as she looked into his eyes, then it hardened again. A faint flush touched her cheeks. He smiled tenderly at her, bewitched.

“Still no answers from him?” she said, glancing at the Professor.

“Very few.” A deep sigh.

“Let me have a few minutes with him and I’ll get him to talk,” the dark haired man, Logan, growled. Summers stirred, frowning, but remained silent.

“What’s your name, chère?” he ignored the threat to ask his amber goddess. “Maybe I share with you den.” Her dark gaze snapped back to him in surprise. Logan growled warningly.

She glanced at the Professor, the brown-haired man, then back down at him. His smile warmed with every ounce of honest pleasure he could put into it without lowering his shields.

“I am Ororo Monroe,” she said cautiously.

“Remy LeBeau, at your service, chère,” he said with a quirk of his lips. His most charming grin. “And for you, anything.”

The red-haired doctor, Jean Grey, snorted. He shot her the grin as well. She all but rolled her eyes at him, recognizing the scoundrel in him. And apparently amused by it.

“You let me go, I promise to behave for M’selle Monroe,” he said softly, earnestly, fixing her with his gaze again. She met his look steadily. It impressed him. Most people found it difficult to look him in the eyes when he wasn’t wearing his contacts.

“Professor?” the doctor said, glancing from the old man to the man in red shades beside him and then back. So far this man had said little, but Remy had the impression his decision would be important. The professor sighed deeply, then nodded. Logan growled, lowering his arms warily. Ready for him to misbehave, of course. Dr. Grey stepped forward to unbuckle the straps on his right arm. His amber goddess lowered her hands and worked on the ones on the other side. He watched her avidly, gaze flickering up to hers as her slender fingers brushed against his chest, the bare skin of his arm.

“Some other time, I let you tie me up again maybe, chère,” he said in a low, husky tone just for her ears. She flushed and stepped away as soon as the last buckle was undone. The other side fell away and he sat up, catching the pack of cards as it slid down his bare chest, hands going immediately to the restraints on his ankles, slipping them free himself. He hated to be confined, but letting them know that would give them a definite advantage.

He spun nimbly on the table, facing his goddess. She had backed further away as he moved. He gave her a reassuring smile, hands spread wide to show his good intentions. The pack of cards was still held between the fingers of one hand. He could have cards out and charged before they blinked. But he didn’t try.

“See? Best behavior,” he said with a wry grin. She smiled and shook her head at him.

“Mr. LeBeau,” the professor said, drawing his attention. “Would you like a tour of the school now? Perhaps meet some of the students so that you understand my concerns regarding their safety?”

“Non, I believe ya. Ready ta go now,” Remy said, flicking glances between them all. Logan was still glaring suspiciously at him. The doctor had moved to the professor’s side, the brown-haired man beside her. His goddess had stepped back too. Out of reach. “Can I have my things?”

“What were you told about our facility?” Summers asked suddenly. His voice was cool, controlled. Remy couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses and that unnerved him since he couldn’t risk lowering his shields to sense his intent.

“Dat it was a private genetics lab, doin’ illegal experiments,” he said with a shrug, not seeing any need to lie, or any further reason to evade. They'd let him go. Apparently just because he was a mutant. He tried not to let that worry him. He considered his next words for only a moment. The ones who’d hired him had broken the rules first, after all. “And the contractor wanted the data as proof for legal action.” He’d been set up good and resented it. No warning about mutant telepaths lying in wait. He didn’t even consider that his source hadn’t known – they’d asked for genetic information. They’d definitely known what he was going to face and hadn’t warned him.

A dark eyebrow rose from behind the streamlined lenses as the other man watched him in return.

“Genetics lab? Professor?” he said, looking down at the man in the chair. Something buzzed in his head then and he shook it slightly. The Professor shot him a curious glance.

“There is indeed something quite interesting about you aside from your apparent profession, Mr. LeBeau,” the old man said aloud.

“Non, just a poor thief tryin’ to make a living in dis shiny new information age,” Remy said, shaking his head ruefully.

“Yeah, with enough fancy gear here to put Tom Cruise to shame,” Logan growled, frowning at him. “Thievin’ pay well?”

“Well enough, mon brave,” he replied with a tight grin, fiddling with his cards. “Dey the finest tools of de trade. I’ve never failed a contract in my life. Don’t intend to start now.” While he spoke he pulled a single card out, walked it through his fingers. His goddess was watching him closely. He grinned at her again, then turned the card face-out. The Queen of Hearts. He presented it to her with a flourish.

“Pour toi, ma belle,” he murmured, gaze caressing her appreciatively. She took the card with an amused, indulgent quirk of her lips, but her eyes were wary, surprised.

“Quit flirtin’ with Storm and answer the Prof’s questions, thief,” Logan growled. “Tell us who you’re workin’ for.” Remy raised a brow at the man, glancing back at his goddess with sudden comprehension.

“Storm? Ah, for the lightning and the wind. Dat was you, chère?” he said with another rueful shake of his head, ignoring the other man. “Never made a place in my plans for a Goddess of the Wind before, no wonder I failed. Ah, a painful blow to my reputation, but for you, chère, I sacrifice even that.”

She flushed brightly under her honey skin, glancing around at the others with an almost guilty desperation. While they were watching her with varying measures of amused astonishment.

“Please stop,” she murmured, glancing at him from the side of her eyes. He softened his grin at her discomfort, but kept his now tragically sad gaze on her.

“Can you stop your beauty from blinding me, ma femme?” he replied quietly. She laughed a little desperately and shook her head. As if his blatant masculine attention was something she had scant experience with. A shame, if so.

“A charmer, aren’t you?” she said a trifle breathlessly. He brightened again and slipped off the table, landing near her side before bowing to her gracefully.

“For you and no other,” he murmured, voice low.

On the far side of the table, Logan gave a snort of disgust. Summers moved, lowering his arms to his sides, a hard look on his face. He didn’t seem to appreciate his flirting with the beautiful Ms. Monroe either.

“There are quite a few mutant children here, Mr. LeBeau, most just learning to deal with their mutations. Privacy and a safe haven from those who don't understand them, even fear and hate them are just some of the things we can give them here,” he said, his tone steady, but he meant the words. “Would you expose them just for the sake of your reputation?” Remy shot him a sharp look, drawing himself up tall and straight, bristling with indignation.

“It is well known that Gambit doesn’t take jobs that harm children,” he said stiffly. “They have already broken the contract. I owe them nothing.” His amber goddess sucked in a shocked breath. He glanced from a thoughtful Summers to her, noting her awed surprise.

“Gambit? I’ve heard of you then,” she said, dark eyes shining with wary confusion. “Interpol has you named as person of interest in several major art thefts across Europe. Thefts rumored to restore art treasures pilfered during wartime to their rightful owners.”

He gave her another short bow of acknowledgement.

“Then we could just turn you over to the cops and maybe even collect a reward,” Logan growled, annoyed. Remy coolly raised a brow at him in reply, silently daring the other man to try.

The Professor had stayed quiet, watching these exchanges in silence, his gray eyes intent. Summers glanced at him briefly, then finally shook his head, a slight frown on his face.

“No, he’s free to go,” Summers said. Logan whirled on him in shocked anger.

“What the hell! Cyke, you can’t…” he began, face dark.

“He won’t tell anyone about us,” Summers said, interrupting sharply. “And we won’t turn him in. But we’re wise to him now. Am I understood, Mr. LeBeau?”

“Oui,” Remy said, inclining his head to Summers. Obviously, he hadn’t been wrong in his assessment. Summers was in charge, though he clearly deferred to the Professor’s wisdom and advice. There was a bond there, of love and respect. Remy could sense it even with his shields in place. “I leave you alone, you leave me alone. C’est tout.”

Then he shot a heated look at Ororo Monroe. Storm, they called her. It suited her, somehow. Beautiful but wild. Strong and challenging. It would be difficult to keep his distance from her.

“Shame, dat,” he said, wryly. “But Gambit leave you be.”

* * * * *

Ororo Monroe stood in the balcony window of her attic room in the sprawling mansion, staring out over the night-shrouded grounds. Stars twinkled above in the clear night sky while warm breezes stirred her loose hair, fluttered her long robe.

It had been a lovely day at the school. A day of fun spent outside with the students, relaxing from studies on a lazy, quiet Sunday. Well, quiet for Xavier’s. Just playing and swimming and shrieking and horsing around, with the added bonus of mutant power inspired pranks to keep them all on their toes. Ice in awkward places, fireworks that went off unexpectedly, high leaps, feats of strength, energy discharges. All in all another typical weekend had passed at Mutant High.

Broken only by the strange excitement of Friday night.

She should really be working on the coming week’s lesson plans. Grading papers. Reviewing quizzes. There was always work to be done. But instead, she stood in the window of her room, holding a silly playing card in her hand, gazing longingly out her window into the soft summer night.

The way he had watched her. She shivered. The open, frank appreciation. Even with Jean right there, he’d scarcely been able to tear his attention away to anyone else.

Those fascinating eyes. Red iris on black sclera. So odd at first, she’d swiftly grown accustomed to them. But she could wholly understand why he chose to wear eye-concealing contact lenses, even if the dull brown color he’d chosen seemed so very wrong.

He was tall, lean, sleekly muscular with long silky auburn hair drawn back in a tight tail on his neck. Handsome in a smooth, yet very masculine way. At ease and composed despite being dressed in nothing but long, surprisingly stylish underwear as he was questioned by the Professor and the entire team.

So at ease even with most of that wonderful body on display... she shied away from the memory suddenly, blushing.

But he was too charming. His smile, like silk. The deliberate flash of white teeth against tanned skin. The intensity with which he would watch her, yet still be aware of all that went on around him. The odd, husky accent that came and went in his speech, interspersed with soft French phrases. Charm like that had to be used, practiced. Yet he’d turned it on no one but her.

She shivered again, wrapping her arms around herself, turning her head toward the brush of the playing card in the hand against her shoulder. Gazed at it.

The Queen of Hearts. Was it really that simple?

Remy LeBeau. Gambit. A thief. Yet perhaps a man of honor.

He had vanished from the mansion as silently as he had come, flashing a last bright smile in the face of Logan’s dark prediction of disaster as they led him upstairs. The Professor had insisted on showing him the classrooms, the dining hall, the rec room, the offices. He’d absorbed it all with a grim sense of purpose. Then he’d smashed all of the data cards himself in a show of good faith to the Professor and Scott before fading away into the night.

The Professor had almost immediately expressed his regret over letting the man go.

“I would dearly like the chance to study his mutation,” he had said, a puzzled frown on his face. “Learn how he has managed to build such substantial psychic shields. I think I would be hard-pressed to find him even with Cerebro. He was hiding so much from us.” Jean had echoed his sentiments. The limited data she had been able to collect while he was unconscious had suggested that Gambit was some kind of energy converter, like Scott, yet he clearly had other odd quirks in his genetic make-up as well.

Scott had been strangely silent, a thoughtful look on his face.

She had cornered him later, wanting to know why. He’d shaken his head, wry smile on his lips. The small one that most people missed because they didn’t know him well.

“I'm pretty certain we'll see LeBeau again someday. Maybe even soon,” he had said, watching her steadily from behind his red shades. She had felt the weight of his gaze and flushed. The card the man had given her all but burning a hole in her pocket.

She had made a weak excuse and fled before she said something silly. But Scott wouldn’t tease, she knew, unless she relaxed. He was careful that way.

More careful than she was, it seemed.

It was just… she couldn’t even complete the thought. But then she forced herself to, with a sigh. Why pretend? She was so lonely. Scott and Jean had each other. Logan was a gruff loner only tentatively integrated into their small group since his return, locked into a war of wills with Scott most of the time and the rest of the time distracted by his reluctant, protective concern for Rogue. The Professor was her respected mentor. A teacher turned friend, but busy with his dream for the future.

That left her often alone. With her plants and her students. Hungry for the attention of adults, longing for affection. So much so that when the first man came along who actually looked at her, she mooned over him?

Ororo sighed deeply, feeling rather pathetic of a sudden. She lowered the hand that held the card, staring at the faintly smug face of the queen.

Then she turned away from the night. Walked to her bedside and set the card carefully inside the drawer of her nightstand. Then she slowly closed the drawer and turned away to crawl into her solitary bed.

There to dream her lonely dreams.

 

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau sat at a table near the rear of the half-empty hotel lounge, cigarette burning in one long-fingered hand as he casually watched the door. Business was slow on Sunday nights. An opened bottle of bourbon stood on the marble table top in front of him, a short glass with the dregs of a single drink and ice melting in it beside it. He drew subtle attention from the rest of the room and knew it.

With his long auburn hair loose around his face, sunglasses obscuring his eyes, his lean acrobat's build covered in dark silk and leather, he was an exotic creature that deigned to mingle with mortals. He could sense the speculation flow and ebb around him even through his shields. Actor? Musician? Artist? Anyone they knew? But it was New York. They’d leave him alone, secure in their jaded sophistication. He only had to keep a wary eye out for wayward tourists.

He’d just poured another finger of bourbon into his glass when the door of the lounge opened and a short, scruffy-looking man in a baggy tweed jacket came in. Instead of drinking, Remy lifted his cigarette, dragged deep on it, and watched. The man looked nervously around the dim room until his gaze finally lit on Remy. The man's eyes widened almost comically in surprise before he ducked his head and scurried over.

Remy crossed his booted feet in front of him, tilted his chin up as the man plopped into the chair across from him. Blew a casual stream of smoke into the air. The man leaned over the table urgently.

“Awful public place for a meeting, LeBeau,” the man said hoarsely, his voice anxious.

Remy shrugged with casual ease. “I like public right now, Bernard,” he said calmly, not accent at all in his voice.

“Where’s the stuff?” Bernard asked, face pale. He was sweating. Granted, it was a warm night outside and he was wearing that hideous tweed coat, but the lounge itself was heavily air conditioned.

“No stuff,” Remy said lightly. Bernard’s eyes widened in panic.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m canceling the deal. It was a set-up,” Remy said, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses as he let a touch of icy anger enter his voice. “I don’t rob children.”

“Children?” Bernard parroted, face paling further at Remy’s tone. “What do you mean? It was a lab…”

“No, it was a school, Bernard,” Remy said, leaning sharply forward in his chair. The motion made Bernard flinch back. “And as you know, I don’t take kindly to being set up. I keep half the fee for my… inconvenience. They get nothing. And the word is already out that your job is tainted.”

“Tainted?” Bernard gasped. “You didn’t! These guys, they’re big, connected. They want that info bad, LeBeau.”

“Then they’ll have to find another way to get it,” Remy snapped. And he’d already considered that. But Xavier and Summers had been warned. They’d be ready. He pitied any fool who took them on now, with Logan and his goddess to stop them. He buried a guilty twinge of concern. There was business to conclude here first.

Bernard propped his elbows on the cold marble table, dropped his head into his hands. Trembling fingers tugged at thinning brown hair.

“You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely. “They’ve already been by. After me. Even though the drop is this morning. These guys mean business.”

“You need to screen your customers better, Bernard,” Remy said, his voice cold. “And that’s the last deal I’ll take from you.”

“What?” Bernard looked up in panic, fear of possible pain temporarily overridden by fear of losing a lucrative operative. Remy leaned further forward, lowered his shades and glared at the other man over the top of them. Contact lenses in place, of course. Bernard still shivered.

“One set-up I excused, Bernard,” he said, voice low, hard. “But two? As a military man once said, that’s enemy action.”

“I thought that was the third time.”

“Not in my book.” He crushed his cigarette out viciously in the ashtray. Bernard swallowed hard, sweating, anxious.

“LeBeau, please, you can’t do this to me,” he begged. "I've got other jobs lined up…" Remy shook his head tightly. Reached into his leather coat and pulled out his wallet. Dropped some bills on the table and rose easily to his feet. Stared down at the shivering man without pity as he put his wallet away.

“The bourbon’s yours, Bernard,” he said shortly, then turned and walked out.

* * * * *

Remy found himself turning his motorcycle north. Leaving Manhattan Island. But even when he finally acknowledged to himself where he was going, he didn’t change direction.

He had to see her again. His storm goddess.

Enjoying the warm wind of his speed blowing by, the deep purr of the engine between his legs, the highway stretching in front of him; it was amazing how light he felt after formally ditching the job. Freedom from guilt. So he was going back to Westchester. To see her again.

Bernard would just have to face the disgruntled customer with the news. Perhaps that would teach him a lesson about being more discerning. But he’d been absolutely serious. He wouldn’t take any more jobs from Bernard. Some people just couldn't recognize the limits he set. Or that he had the rep to make them stick. Too bad. For them.

The miles flew by, eased by the savoring of anticipation. It was an art he had perfected. Soon he was winding through the dark, semi-rural wooded lanes, watching for the distinctive walls of Xavier’s estate. He parked his bike in the same place he had before, hidden behind brush near the wall. Scaled the high stone wall with ease and dropped down onto the grass beyond. Paused a long moment to listen. Heard nothing but the normal sounds of the night.

He straightened up and walked toward the mansion. It wasn’t that late, just after eleven. He noted the lights still on in a large portion of the ground-level rooms. Observed through the windows how the occupants – most of them teenagers – were gathered on the main level, watching television. Saw Summers sitting beside Dr. Grey, his arm around her shoulders, her feet curled up cozily on the couch beside her. He raised a brow at the sight, a smile on his lips, and looked around the room only long enough to make certain the one he sought wasn’t there.

Then he walked slowly around the building. Paused in the garden, momentarily daunted by the task of finding her somewhere inside the substantial dwelling without alerting everyone. But only momentarily. He loved a challenge.

He looked up, caught a glimpse of something white blowing near the roof. And smiled.

* * * * *

Ororo Monroe lay in bed, her eyes closed, weary after a fashion, but still she had been unable to fall sleep. It was really too soon for her to go to bed, but her restlessness had left her no other choice. A thin sheet covered her in the warmth of the evening, her body bare beneath to better cool herself. The tall windows stood open, sheer curtains billowing in the gentle breeze.

She heard a quiet scraping sound outside. Her eyes flew open and she sat up, sheet clutched to her chest.

A shadow leaned in the nearest window, obscuring the stars.

“Evenin', chère.”

“Gambit,” she said, and heard a soft laugh in reply.

“So formal,” he said in that same throaty accent. “An’ me not even workin’. Want I should call you Storm den, chère?”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, heart pounding as she wrapped herself more closely in the sheet. What had Jean said about his red-on-black eyes? That he could probably see in the dark?

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said. “I thought of ma belle femme an’ had to see her again.”

She flushed and slid to the edge of the bed, hoping he couldn’t see her clearly in the dark. Determined to fight back the thrill, the pleasure his words had brought, to think calmly in his presence. She found her robe and slipped it on, belting it tightly as she rose to her feet. He was still in the window, leaning against the narrow railing that lined the tiny, mostly decorative balcony outside the French doors.

“So, what should I call you?” she asked, hand moving to the bedside light. Her concerns about the range of his night vision were apparently confirmed when he quickly murmured, “No lights, please, chère.”

“Alright,” she agreed, moving slowly across the room. Her own eyes soon adjusted to the starlight and the spillover from lit windows below. She could see him, handsome face profiled against the stars, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her approach.

She stopped a few feet away. He had removed his contact lenses and his eyes shown faintly red in the dim light.

“My poppa, he called me Remy when he was in a good mood, chère,” he said, amusement rippling through his tone, a small smile curving his elegant lips. “Other t’ings when he wasn’t.” His accent was thick now, his voice slow, drawling. As if he had all the time in the world.

“Remy,” she said, the name leaving her like a breath. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Dis your room?” he said with a slightly wider smile, a wicked gleam to his eye. “Pardon me, so rude.”

She laughed, the sound rang out low and amused, unable to help herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her shoulder against the other side of the window. Matching his casual ease. Watching him.

“How did you get up here?” she asked. His lips quirked and he turned his head to the side, watching her from the corners of those demon’s eyes.

“Trade secret, chère,” he said lightly. “But it felt like I had wings.”

She laughed again, delighted. And was briefly alarmed that his teasing banter pleased her so. Who was he? Just a thief in the night. A man who’d agreed to steal from them. Then, when caught, just as readily agreed not to. A contradiction. An unknown. And already a threat to her heart. She frowned.

“Ah, so serious, chère,” he said softly, obviously well able to see her expressions. He moved then, slowly uncoiling his lean limbs. Easing toward her like a great cat. Giving her plenty of time to object, to move away. She stood still, barely daring to breathe, letting her arms fall to her sides. He stopped with a scant hand’s breadth between them. She could feel the warmth of his breath, smell a strangely enticing blend of cigarettes and bourbon and cinnamon there. So tall. She looked up into his gleaming red eyes. Trembled.

“You came to see me?” she asked, scarcely believing that soft, breathy sound was her voice.

“Oui, t’ see my storm goddess ‘gain,” he said, gaze searching her face, looking into her eyes. His hand rose, threading through the long hair hanging by her face, stroking it gently back behind her ear. She trembled again as his hand brushed her skin, her cheek. So soft, so gentle.

“Why?” The question torn from her as she stared into his intent face, so close to hers.

“Why does de sun rise? ‘Cause it has to, chère,” he said, leaning closer, gaze moving slowly from her eyes to her mouth. Her own eyes fluttered closed, lips parting in anticipation. His warm breath washed over her lips.

Then she heard the pounding of feet on the stairs leading to her attic, the girlish voices raised in friendly debate. Her eyes flew open wide. He moved away with startling speed, was already poised at the railing outside her window looking back over his shoulder at her before she could do more than take a breath.

His eerie gaze seared her with heat, with regret, with unguarded need. She gasped, half-raising a hand toward him. Wanting to understand, to ask… Then there came a pounding on the attic door at the bottom of the stairwell behind her, familiar voices laughingly calling her name.

He gave her a roguish smile, then disappeared silently into the night.

She stood there a moment longer, frozen, hand still raised. Torn, aching. Then lowered it and turned to walk slowly down the steps to open the door to Kitty and Jubilee’s eager faces. Forced a welcoming smile to her face.

Alone again.

* * * * *

He crouched, balanced, on the long slope of the roof outside her window, listening to the two young girls chatter to her. Heard her low, quiet replies. Just absorbed, for a moment, the sound of her voice.

Oh, how he'd wanted to kiss her. And he almost had. But the first time he tasted her wouldn't be rushed. No, he planned to take his time with it. With her.

But the waiting would be hard.

He was briefly tempted to lower his shields and touch her essence, to confirm what his eyes, his ears, his heart had already told him. That she wanted him as well. That she felt the same pull, the same connection he did. But he dared not with Professor Xavier and Dr. Grey around. There were too many secrets held in his mind to risk it.

He frowned into the night. The strength of her draw was alarming. He wanted to know her. To learn what pleased her. To savor her. But he’d never felt such an instant bond before and it unsettled him.

Time. He needed time. He remembered the uncertainty and the confusion he had seen in her eyes underneath the sharp desire. She needed time too.

With a last lingering look at her open window, he made his way silently down the roof, down the side of the mansion to the ground. Then calmly strolled off into the warm summer night.

He would go for now. But he would be back.

To see his stormy woman again.

* * * * *

Bernard shivered as he stared across the back seat of the limousine into the cold black eyes of the man before him. Dark haired, thin, austere, the man was somehow ageless. Not young, despite the darkness of his hair, the eerie smoothness of his features. Not with eyes like that. Dressed in an elegant suit, a discreetly striped tie dark against the starched whiteness of his shirt.

Bernard's gaze shot to the man beside him - another frightening individual. A tall, hulking, blond brute with wickedly sharp teeth. Bernard's shoulder still ached from the wrenching the big man had given it when he was hauled inside the car before it drove away.

"I told you, sir," Bernard sniveled. "He got there, got in and then left. Claimed it was a set-up. That it actually was a school and not a lab at all."

"So. The infamous Gambit has discovered ethics," the man said, his voice low and strangely emotionless. With the faintest of English accents. "Of a sort. Or perhaps…" And he trailed away, lips pursing thoughtfully.

"He cancelled the contract, not me," Bernard said, desperate, glancing from the preoccupied dark-haired man to the blond brute beside him. Who lifted a lip in a silent snarl, dark eyes flat like those of a snake. Pitiless. Deadly. Bernard huddled by the door, even though he knew it was locked. Had heard the solid thunk as the locks engaged. He wasn't leaving until they were done with him. He shivered again.

"Gambit has pull, Dr. Essex," Bernard found himself adding desperately. "And he was ticked. I tried to talk him out of it, but he put the word out on the street to all the indies that your contract is tainted. Now nobody will touch it."

"Tainted?" Dr. Essex said, dark brow rising fractionally.

The blond giant grunted. "Spook job."

"Indeed," Dr. Essex said, his expression chilling slightly. "As if I would still waste my time with bumbling government agencies."

"There might be some foreign talent I can get in. Some of them aren't so picky," Bernard said desperately. "Especially from the Middle East."

"I require data from the site, Mr. Bernard, not that it be blown up. Well, Mr. Creed," Essex said, dark gaze moving to the blond giant. "Gambit will just have to be encouraged to complete his mission. He is, unfortunately, rather uniquely qualified for the task."

Then he glanced at Bernard, his lip lifting slightly.

"And dispose of this, will you, Mr. Creed? The whining annoys me."

The blond man's hand lashed out, locked around Bernard's throat. Heavy, claw-like nails digging in as Bernard grabbed futilely at the hand, gagging. The limo had stopped at some point and the big man opened the door behind him and dragged the struggling man outside.

At a waterfront warehouse, location unclear in the darkness, somewhere on the river. Bernard's eyes bugged. The hand tightened around his throat mercilessly. He gasped and kicked, uselessly, choking.

The big man just smiled and lifted him into the air, staring into his eyes as he gave a last flex of his hand and Bernard's neck snapped like a dry twig.

Then he gave a snort of disgust, bent down and wrapped a length of chain that lay on the dock nearby around the body several times before throwing everything into the river.

Bernard's body barely made a splash as it sank out of sight in the dark water.

The big man slid back inside the limousine. Which then drove smoothly away into the night.

* * * * *

Early the next morning, before breakfast, Scott was discussing lesson plans with the Professor when Ororo knocked on the Professor’s open office door. Kids streamed past in the hallway, chattering on their way to the dining hall. Running, shoving. Laughing.

“Can I interrupt?” she asked quietly, a serious look on her face.

“Certainly, Ororo,” the Professor said with a smile. She stepped inside, waving Scott back to his seat as she closed the door behind her. Scott obligingly sank back in the chair, a puzzled look on his face.

“No, this is for both of you,” she said with a sigh. She walked across the room slowly, her long jacket swirling around her as she moved. Then she stopped in front of the Professor’s desk and folded her arms over her chest.

“I had a visitor last night,” she said with a sigh, glancing from the Professor to Scott. “Remy LeBeau.”

“Back so soon,” Scott said quietly, not acting particularly surprised. “How did he get in?”

She smiled slightly and flushed, a darkly amused look in her eye. “He climbed up to my window.”

Both of Scott's eyebrows shot above his glasses. The mansion was three stories tall. Ororo's room in the attic was nearly four stories above the ground. "Indeed," the professor said, concealing a smile. "A most determined young man."

The office door slammed open abruptly and Logan stormed inside, face clouded with rage.

"That damn thief was back!" he snapped. "I smelled fresh tracks across the grounds this morning."

"Ahem, yes, Logan, so Ororo was just telling us," the professor said, leaning back in his chair. Scott stood up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ororo as Logan glared at her.

"Came back to sniff around you, did he?" Logan said, a dark look on his face. Ororo met his glare calmly enough, but her back was stiff with outrage.

"The point is, Logan," Scott said, dragging Logan's attention away from Ororo. "That LeBeau has mental shields that keep Jean and the Professor from detecting him unless they are very, very close. And he has extraordinary breaking and entering skills. So if he wants to drop in, there's not much we can do about it right now."

"He does not seem hostile. Indeed he seemed quite genuinely dismayed to learn this was actually a school and that he had been duped into believing it otherwise. I do not believe he means us any harm," the Professor said in his quiet, yet intense way. Everyone turned to face him, granting him the courtesy of their full attention. "And if his… interest in Ororo brings him around again, then perhaps we can convince him to join us, as you did, Logan."

"He's a professional thief," Logan spat, folding his arms over his chest. A disdainful curl to his lip.

"And a very good one, apparently. But perhaps we could put his skills to use for us, instead of against us," the Professor said calmly.

Logan all but goggled at Xavier.

"You mean have him steal information for you?"

"There are still organizations in the world, both public and private, legal and illegal, Logan, that experiment on mutants. If the need were urgent, I would have little hesitation in employing Mr. LeBeau's skills in that regard," the Professor said. "Particularly if it avoided the use of the X-Men in an open confrontation." Scott stiffened, his face paling slightly. Ororo shifted uneasily. Logan glared.

"So we just sit around and wait for this Gambit pain-in-the-ass to drop in again?" Logan said. "And welcome him with open arms when he finally does?"

The Professor glanced at Ororo, who flushed slightly under his gently knowing look.

"I do not believe we will have long to wait."

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau had slept short after arriving back at his Manhattan apartment, then gone out while the day was still relatively new. Sunglasses firmly in place against the bright morning sunlight, he took a chance and didn't put his concealing contacts back in. What was life without a little risk, after all?

After stopping for coffee and a roll at a corner stand, he then made a quick visit to the local grocery for food. He hadn't planned to stay in town after the last job, and the change in plans had left him short of fresh food.

Restless after last night's abortive encounter, he found himself wondering with more than idle curiosity if his lovely goddess would enjoy the view from his patio. Not a spectacular view, but a view indeed. The small penthouse suite he owned had always seemed more than adequate to him as a stateside base of operations, but to her, used to the mansion in Westchester? He sighed slightly, a wry smile crossing his lips.

Already, he was worried if she would approve of the place he lived and he hadn't even kissed her yet? He shrugged internally, laughing at himself to keep from crying. The great Gambit brought down by a woman he barely knew? If his brother and father and friends could only see him now… he shrugged the painful thought away. Best not to think of home and other things that were no longer his.

The first crush of early morning traffic had faded to the normal daily level. He strolled down the street, watching his surroundings with casual efficiency and a thief's cautious training, a single bag of groceries held in one arm as he contemplated his attraction to Ororo Monroe. So very beautiful, but he'd known many beautiful women. Was the draw in the challenge of overcoming the cool self-possession in her gaze? The touch of tragic solitude? The perception of bewilderment over his attentions? Or was it the sense of finding a life suspended, like an insect in amber, so alone and just waiting for someone to recognize her need and release her?

As he was alone. As he had been for far too long. But he liked it that way… didn't he?

His full attention jerked back to his surroundings as a late-model sedan slowed beside him on the semi-residential street. The windows were tinted dark. Outwardly he betrayed no heightened awareness of it, but inside he prepared himself for a fight. He casually slipped his free hand into a coat pocket. Found his deck of playing cards and readied it. The car ran suddenly forward into an alley entrance in front of him, the doors opening to spill three rough-looking men out onto the sidewalk in front of him.

He stopped, watching them with a deliberately amused smile on his lips.

"Hey, buddy – got someone who wants a word with you," one of the men said, an aluminum baseball bat held at his side. As if chance encounters might lead to a casual game on the street. The other two men were bigger, but appeared unarmed. Loose jackets could conceal much, however, he knew.

Remy's hidden gaze flicked over the three men before him, the nearby street, took in the presence of bystanders. Not too many, nor were they dangerously close. He smiled wider and pulled his hand out of his pocket, leaving the cards behind. No sense attracting too much attention.

"Only t'ree?" he said, deliberately exaggerating his accent. Let them think him a hick. "T'ink dat's an insult, me."

"Really, punk?" the spokesman said, glaring back. "Just get in the car and there won't be any trouble." The other two advanced slowly.

Remy sighed and turned away, keeping a wary eye on them behind his sunglasses as he set his bag of groceries down with deliberate nonchalance on the back of a nearby parked car. Then he turned back to face the advancing men, both hands spread wide in an apparently conciliatory fashion.

"Jus' a minute, hommes," he said, sobering slightly, readying himself. "Don't want no trouble here."

"Too late," one of the men snapped as they all continued toward him.

Remy just smiled, watching closely, lowering his shields slightly. Enough to read them. The closest man lunged for him first and he spun away almost before the attack came, leg sweeping out to fell the late-responding companion with a foot across the jaw. Steel toed boots, of course. Remy smiled dangerously as the man crumpled, his buddy's face gone blank with astonishment as he looked down at his fallen companion. He automatically blocked the man's pain as it rolled over him. Focusing grimly through it as he had long ago learned to do.

A flare of warning as outside anger surged. The first bruiser drew back to punch him but Remy flipped expertly away toward the surprised spokesman, both feet striking the man's chest and sending him reeling into the car behind him. The man fell to the concrete hard after his head slammed back into the car, cracking the window glass with the force of impact. The metal baseball bat rang noisily on the ground beside him.

The last man standing – the first to attack – had turned to follow him, reacting clumsily to the shocking speed of Remy's response. The man launched himself at him with a yell, arms wide as if attempting to tackle him. Remy twisted easily out of the way, dodging the attack with fluid skill. Then kicked the man in the rear as he passed and sent him careening head-first into the side of the car he'd climbed out of. This opponent crumpled to the ground too.

Remy scooped up the fallen baseball bat and leaned inside the open front passenger door of the sedan. Pressed the cold barrel of the bat against the driver's startled throat. He reached into the man's coat, slapped the man's hand away and pulled out the gun holstered there.

"Tell your boss dat Gambit don't like dis approach, homme," he said quietly. Face grim as he tucked the gun in his own coat pocket. "He wants an appointment, he make one t'rough channels, oui?"

"Y-yeah. Sure, man," the driver stammered, eyes rolling wildly. And Remy could feel the man's fear, his shock. Three men down and out within seconds. Not what they'd been expecting at all.

Remy spun the bat neatly away under his arm and slipped out of the car. Glanced around at the three bodies on the ground. Only one was already groaning his way back to consciousness. The other two were still out cold. He walked unhurriedly over to his bag of groceries. Picked it up. Scanned the area again and gave a disdainful sniff.

"Dey jus' don't make hired muscle like dey used to," he said loudly, shaking his head with mock sadness. Then he adjusted his sunglasses before he walked away across the street, heading for the opposite alley. He left his shields open just enough to warn him of further attacks, of hidden assistance, but there were no hostile emotions he could detect save the driver's lingering fear and the astonished shock of the few passers-by who had witnessed the lightning-fast battle. And most of them were just confused. Had they really seen what they thought they saw?

It had happened too quickly for anyone to think of calling the police yet, and he planned to be long gone before any bystanders regained presence of mind to do so. And so would the goons. The driver had already climbed out of the car to drag his buddies inside.

He discarded the gun in the first dumpster he passed, carefully removing the chambered bullet and clip before charging the gun up. The muffled explosion inside the dumpster echoed loudly in the alley. The baseball bat simply went into the next dumpster he passed. After being wiped clean of prints, of course. He touched the loose bullet in his pocket thoughtfully.

Then Remy took the long way home.

* * * * *

An elegantly dressed woman stood with her arms crossed over her chest, a scornful look on her beautiful face. Behind her the floor-to-ceiling windows of a luxuriously appointed office framed the skyline of New York City silhouetted by the afternoon sun. The view both incredible and completely ignored by the two occupants of the room.

"You only sent three ordinary men to take him?" she said, her long blonde hair rippling as she turned to pin the man watching her from the nearby couch with a disdainful look. "You are a fool, Essex."

The man said nothing. His dark eyes calm, remote as he watched her. But she still shifted under that gaze. Perhaps regretting the sharpness of her words. The silence lengthened uncomfortably.

"It is best not to show one's hand completely, Madame Candra," Essex finally said. "I required a certain confirmation that I have since received." She turned to face him, a manicured hand falling to touch the top of the desk beside her. Drawing a measure of reassurance from it. Her desk. Her office. Her place of power. But still uneasy under Essex's stare.

"He is aware of your interest now. He will be wary. It will be impossible to persuade him to work for you again," she said, trying to regain a sense of control. Not normally so clumsy in her dealings with Essex, but the subject had her distracted. Remy LeBeau. Her glistening red lips pursed in a frown as memories flooded her. "He is remarkably stubborn."

As she well knew. Remy LeBeau had been under her control, once. Master Thief and heir to his father's throne, so to speak. But she had underestimated him, thought him nothing more than a pretty face. It had cost her control of a very lucrative organization. The elusive and legendary Thieves' Guild.

"Perhaps," Essex replied as those dark, knowing eyes watched her. She shivered inside, hiding it with old skill. Did Essex somehow know how LeBeau had humiliated her? How could he? "And perhaps his new scruples may be used to persuade him otherwise."

Her icy blue gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

Essex smiled. It was a thin expression, sharp and ominous. It almost sent a shiver down her spine. And she was not easily alarmed. Not the woman who had fought her way to the top of one of the most feared syndicates in the world: the Assassin's Guild.

"We simply find an appropriate lever and apply it," the doctor said, his pale face emotionless.

"He is a loner, Essex," she said sharply. "Anyone he does care about is well hidden from us. There is nothing and no one available to use as a lever against him."

"If you think that, Madame Candra, then you haven't been paying close enough attention," Essex said, a dark amusement creeping into his tone, if not his expression, as he rose to his feet. "Gambit will do as I require, and then I will turn him over to you. All according to our agreement."

She watched the tall man before her, and a sharp, anticipatory smile of her own touched her lips. To have Remy LeBeau at her mercy again…

"Very well, Dr. Essex," she said with a regal nod. "My Guild is at your disposal."

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau disconnected the phone sharply in the middle of the recorded message. Third time. Bernard was avoiding him.

He cursed as he strode across his apartment through the late afternoon sun and dropped the phone back into its cradle. Red-on-black eyes flared with frustration. He ran his hands impatiently through his loose auburn hair as he stared out over his penthouse patio at the New York skyline.

Bernard wasn't reachable, which was odd. It was critical to his work that clients or operatives be able to reach him no matter what time of day or night. But he was out of contact, had been for half a day. Maybe Remy'd been too hard on the man and scared him into hiding. The broker had seemed genuinely frightened by the people behind the Xavier job.

And ever since he'd put down the three toughs on the street that morning Remy had been feeling edgy too. Something wasn't right. A sense of trouble looming, maybe. A premonition.

Premonitions had kept him alive before. He picked up his long leather duster, the one with the collapsible staff and other critical equipment concealed in the lining, then grabbed his keys and his sunglasses and was gone.

* * * * *

Ororo Monroe sat alone in the mansion library, staring out at the distant trees and cloud-dotted sky beyond the opened windows. The air was soft and fragrant with the aroma of summer flowers that she herself had planted. She had nothing to do at the moment. And given her mood lately, it was really no surprise then to find herself idly dreaming of eyes that glowed faintly under starlight and a wicked smile that tugged deep at her soul.

Earlier she had been tutoring two students who had fallen behind on history lessons due to wild flare-ups of mutant powers. Not the usual reason a teenager would miss class, but all too common at Mutant High, at least with the younger students. Summer class schedules were far lighter than regular term, but since a large portion of the children had nowhere else to go, they gave them a break during the time the lucky few returned home for the summer. It seemed the least they could do.

Someone entered the room behind her but she didn't turn around. She heard the solid tread of heavy feet and realized it was probably Logan. He could move quietly when he wanted too, but lumbered like a bull otherwise. But then, she was unusually sensitive to sound and moving around all that metal on his bones was probably tiring.

"What can I do for you, Logan?" she asked after the silence dragged on for a while. He shifted behind her, and she could readily imagine his frown.

"I wanted to apologize," he said gruffly. That turned her around. She looked at him with mild surprise.

"Apologize?"

He frowned deeper and shifted on his feet. Looking quite uncomfortable in a most un-Logan like way. Almost embarrassed. "For some of the things I said this morning – and Friday night – ‘bout the thief an’ you."

She searched his dark eyes. He met her gaze levelly. Seeing her, perhaps, for the first time. As a woman and a person in her own right, not just as a teammate or a fellow teacher.

"That's big of you," she said quietly. "Thank you."

"I'm not so sure Chuck and Cyke are on the right track with this guy. I've known people like him before. Their first loyalty is always to themselves," he said, his brows drawn low over his eyes. "I don't want to see you get hurt by some slick talkin' thief out to make a big score."

Ororo found herself strangely touched. The Wolverine gave his concern sparingly. That he'd admit to being worried about her was nothing short of amazing.

"I appreciate that, I really do," she said, hugging the memory of Remy's visit to her room to her heart. He'd come for nothing except to see her. "But I don't think he's just looking to make a score here."

Logan frowned back at her. Obviously doubting. Then he gave her a short nod of acknowledgement, looking like he wanted to argue further, but to her relief instead he just turned and walked stiffly away

* * * * *

Scott Summers stood in the doorway of the bedroom he shared with Jean Grey. Arms folded, face grim, he watched the woman he loved pack her suitcase.

"I'm still not sure it's a good idea for both of you to be gone like this now," Scott said quietly. Jean frowned at him over her shoulder. A package of pantyhose crinkled in her hand.

"You know we have to go to this symposium, Scott. The Professor has a panel on Thursday and I have one Wednesday. Besides, I thought you felt this LeBeau guy was okay," she said, frowning.

"It's not him I'm worried about," Scott said. "It's the people who hired him. Someone wants genetic information on us – and the students – badly enough to hire a professional thief to get it. That makes me uneasy." She tossed the pantyhose into her suitcase.

"Well," Jean said, as she turned and came over to him. "Maybe you should just hire him to find out who hired him the first time." She moved close and he lowered his arms so she could slip her arms around his waist. He put his arms around her in return. Savoring, as always, the wonder of Jean in his arms.

"You know, honey," Scott said with a wry smile. "That's not a bad idea. There's just one problem..."

"…we don't know how to get hold of him," Jean finished for him with a frustrated sigh. "I know. And the professor's tried Cerebro twice now. I think he considers it a kind of insult that he can't pinpoint our elusive Mr. LeBeau."

They held each other in thoughtful silence for a while until Scott asked, "Why would he have mental shields like that anyway, do you think?"

Her face settled into contemplative lines, a little crease appearing between her brows. Another mutant power puzzle to sort out.

"He's probably a telepath of some strength. And since he's a functional person and not catatonic and doesn't appear to be schizophrenic, he must have learned how to shield himself early on," Jean said with a wince. "Unlike me."

Jean had spent several of her early teen years in a mental institution, committed by her parents for hearing 'voices' in her head. It wasn't until Professor Xavier found her and taught her to shield herself from the minds of others that she had a more normal life. That was primarily why her telekinesis was far more developed than her telepathy. She had painful memories of the onset of her telepathic power and was still fairly reluctant to drop her shields for anyone other than the Professor and Scott and Ororo.

Scott tightened his arms around her as she shuddered, his cheek pressed to hers. Comforting her automatically. He'd read her records in depth. He'd read everyone in the mansion's medical records. In his capacity as team leader, as he needed to know everyone's background regarding their mutation. To understand their weaknesses and strengths. He hugged her tighter and she burrowed against him, not adverse to the comfort of his arms though she'd long ago dealt with her pain.

As her lover, he felt her reluctance, her fear and wanted to protect her. As her team leader, he understood the value a high-level telepath could bring to the team and wanted to encourage her to develop it. Sometimes it was a difficult path to tread.

"They could be entirely defensive and he may not even be able to lower them voluntarily," she continued after a moment. "We just don't know. He wasn't very cooperative and we didn't have very much time to study him anyway. And then there were his eyes and that energy absorption curve that looked a lot like yours..." She sighed heavily and he knew the researcher in her was frustrated. Such an interesting case; so little opportunity to work on it.

"Yes," Scott said. "He’s probably full of surprises. But it's not his mutant powers we need him for here – it's his skills and his contacts."

"Well, maybe he'll drop in on 'Ro again while the Professor and I are gone," Jean said, drawing back slightly to look him in the glasses, catching his gaze behind the red lenses. A faint frown marred her brow again, but this one was from concern.

"You don't think that would be a good thing?" Scott asked gently, aware of her change in mood. Jean shrugged slightly.

"You know I've been worried about her for a while. She's lonely and tries so hard to hide it. And he seemed so fascinated with her." Jean bit her lip. "I just don't want her to be hurt if he turns out to be some kind of creep after all."

Scott laughed and shook his head. Jean frowned deeper and drew away from him. He caught her hand, keeping her from pulling completely away.

"Frankly, I wouldn't want to be in LeBeau's shoes if he really is stringing her along. She does command lightning, you know," he chuckled gently, but his expression was still serious. Jean found herself smiling reluctantly. Scott was worried too, but trying to lighten her fears. Ororo had been their friend for a long time; watching someone break her heart wasn’t something either of them wanted to do.

She'd much rather Ororo didn't have to resort to lightning bolts. But if it came to that, she'd help hold LeBeau down.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau entered the rundown walk-up apartment with ease. The locks were pitiful, even if there were nine of them. Bernard could easily afford a better place but had apparently chosen a slightly seedier neighborhood in order to avoid drawing too many questions about his strange comings and goings at all hours.

Looking around the small apartment, Remy thought that perhaps Bernard had also chosen this type of place to live in order to avoid health code violations. The politest thing that could be said about it was that it was a sty. Old take-out boxes were piled on every flat surface, amid dirty plates and molding cups, stacks of magazines, papers and other junk leaned everywhere, dirty clothes and trash covered the floor. A tiny TV with a coat hanger for an antenna sat near a grimy lounge chair, beer cans scattered on the floor beside it. The place was rank in the evening warmth.

Bernard was not at home. Not even dead in the bedroom, though Remy had half-feared that when he first opened the door and the stench rolled over him.

He found Bernard’s incongruously neat office in the much smaller second bedroom. The windows had been boarded closed so no one could see in. An AC unit was nailed into the window frame for cooling. Here were ruthlessly organized paper files. A top-of-the-line computer system with high-speed connections. Multiple telephone lines. He found his own file in the file cabinet and paged through it absently. Not much information there, as he’d expected. He frowned at the picture he found in it; a candid one he’d not been aware had been taken. Though he did recognize the meeting place and time where it had been taken.

Going into the equally filthy bathroom, he first turned on the fan, then the shower at full strength. Then he charged up the entire file and tossed it into the bathtub. The papers and photo exploded there with a muffled bang, the noise hidden under the noise of the shower and the sound of the fan. He shut off the water and let the fan continue to run to clear out any lingering smoke as he went back to the office.

Remy woke the computer from sleep mode and curled his lip at the password request. Hacking wasn’t his favorite part of any job, but he was fairly good at it. Bernard was paranoid, in his own way, but rather predictable. Remy rifled through the file cabinet one more time, finally pulling out a select few files and opening them on the desk beside the keyboard. Then he settled down in the ergonomically correct and very uncomfortable chair and went to work.

* * * * *

Ororo came out onto the front steps of the mansion after dinner, awash in a flood of kids who had come to see Dr. Grey and the Professor off. They were to attend and present at a medical symposium on genetics being held in New York for the rest of the week. Rogue, Jubilee and Kitty were talking with Jean eagerly, all but begging for small items from the city, as if they never had a chance to go there themselves. Scott slid closed the rolling side door of the modified van at last, after making certain the Professor’s chair was secured properly in the back and privately bidding him a good trip. Jean waved to them all as she started the van and turned on the headlights. The girls backed away and dashed for the stairs, calling out cheerful and loud good-byes. The school's usual orderliness slipped a little during the summer.

“We’ll be back by Friday night,” Jean called, waving through the rolled down window. The kids waved wildly back. Scott just smiled at her and Ororo knew they’d already said their good-byes in private. She felt a brief pang of longing.

//Watch out for yourself, ‘Ro,// she heard in Jean’s soft mental voice. Her head jerked up and she frowned curiously at her friend. Jean smiled gently back.

//I will,// she replied. //You too. Don’t let any handsome, dashing research geneticists sweep you off your feet or poor Scott will be lost.// She was genuinely touched by her friend’s concern, knowing how rare it was for Jean to indulge in mental communication. But she just couldn’t resist the small tease.

//I’ll be too busy with the symposium,// Jean said, and Ororo could feel the humor in her mental voice. //But that certainly won’t stop me from looking!//

Ororo laughed out loud. Jean waved one last time, then drove away. The kids trailed back inside the house, still chattering excitedly. With Jean and the Professor both gone, classes had been cut back even further. It was even more of a summer vacation for them now.

Scott turned around on the bottom step, hands in his slacks pockets, his eyes completely hidden behind his lenses in the darkness.

“What did she say?” he asked with a small smile. Ororo just shook her head in amusement, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Girl stuff, Scott,” she said smugly. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” He laughed and climbed the short steps to her side. They could hear joyful screams coming from inside the mansion somewhere as high spirits were unleashed on a warm summer evening.

“Well, you ready to take on the kids now that they’re really in the vacation mood?” he said heavily. They heard an irritated bellow from Logan inside. Then a brief silence followed by more yelling, pounding feet and shrieks of laughter.

“Where does Jean hide the sedatives?” she asked with mock anguish, rolling her eyes dramatically at the noise.

“Gonna drug ‘em all?” Scott said, lips twisting in a smile. And somehow not looking entirely adverse to the idea.

She shook her head ruefully. “No, I meant for us!”

And, laughing, they entered the mansion together.

* * * * *

He picked up the tail when he left Bernard’s apartment. He had all necessary information safely memorized. And now all of Bernard’s files on him were destroyed. Slanting shadows filled the streets as the summer sun began its slow descent. The air was still thick with warmth as night fell.

Remy always lowered his shields slightly when working. It had preserved his freedom and saved his life more than once to have that early warning, despite the pain it could bring. Only at Xavier’s had he been forced to shield tightly.

He felt the single peak of interest rise above the background flow of emotion as he came out the front door of the building. Noted the sharpened focus on him in particular. He walked easily out to his motorcycle on the curb, climbing aboard and casually scanning the street as he readied his helmet.

There, on the far side of the block, a tall, muscular black man lounged with apparent ease against the stoop of a building amid a loose group of other people. But the ones around him were uneasy. They didn’t know him. Remy let his gaze slide over the man without reacting. He’d put in his contacts as he always did for public work. Even though, if the job was at night, he could see just as easily right through his sunglasses, they drew too much attention. Thus the contacts were a necessary evil.

He slipped his helmet on and started the engine, backing his bike into the street. The tail was good. His attention sharpened, but he made no move to follow or even shifted his stance. Not until Remy had almost reached the corner. Then the man simply lifted a cell phone and made a call. Transferring the tail to a mobile unit that couldn’t have been spotted. A thrill shot through him for that. Ah, professionals then.

Remy let a wicked smile touch his lips as he revved his bike.

Losing them was going to be fun.

* * * * *

Despite the warmth of the evening, the girl drew the tattered raincoat with its enveloping hood closer around her face and body as she huddled beside a dumpster in the alley behind a restaurant. She was waiting for the garbage to be taken out so that she could scrounge a meal. The smell of cooking food that wafted from the opened back doors was beginning to make her dizzy.

She was so hungry.

It had been more than a week since her life went to hell. Not that it hadn’t been hell before, but it had turned into a special, darker kind of hell now. At least before she’d had food to eat and clothes to wear and a place to sleep, even if she’d had to be careful of her mother’s latest boyfriend’s drunken rages. Now she was on the streets full-time. And didn’t dare approach anyone she knew.

She didn’t even dare be seen.

For a little while she’d contemplated just stepping off a bridge. Falling through the air into the dark, cold water far below. Ending it all. She wasn’t quite there yet, though the idea still lurked somewhere in the back of her mind. A last resort, maybe.

Because she’d always been a fighter. Since she was little and a few of the endless succession of boyfriends that paraded through her mother’s life had taken an unhealthy interest in an ugly little girl. Biting and kicking and screaming had soon dissuaded them. At least until she’d fallen asleep. Then had come the real horror. But she’d fought then too, as hard as she could. Most of the time it had worked. Sometimes, well, those times she preferred not to remember.

But how could she fight her own body? The grinding aches in her bones that her mother had callously dismissed as her womanly curse or just growing up too fast had become something far worse. At first just scabby hard spots on the skin above her joints or wherever the bones were close to the skin, then full-scale painful eruptions, then spikes of bone, hard and dry, protruding through her skin. After a while, they broke free, leaving a drying socket of bone and fitfully bleeding skin behind. The piece that came away was usually knife-like and sharp.

She hid them under baggy clothes for a while, but when they started erupting on her face she was discovered. Her mother threw her out of the house and told her never to return, screaming and crying in horror and disgust. Calling her an abomination and a curse and worse… a mutant.

And she was. A mutant. A mutie freak like those in the news. Her stomach churned with fear and self-loathing. Everyone hated mutants.

She did too, even though she'd become one. Especially now.

A long dark limousine turned into the alley behind her and she huddled further into the dark corner behind the dumpster to stay out of the driver’s sight, feeling one of the longer protrusions on her back break free with a wet crack. It hurt, like it always did in that same dull way, but she bit her lip and stayed as still as possible. Not wanting to be found and chased away.

The car came to a slow stop behind the restaurant. She watched it from under her hood warily.

One of the back doors opened and a tall man got out. He was really tall. And blond and hulking. Like a football player or something. Huge. He lifted his head and took a deep breath, almost like he was sniffing. Then he turned right toward the dumpster. His eyes were like black pits. A long leather coat flapped around his legs as he moved.

“Smell ya, little mutie girl,” he called out, his voice low, growling. “C’mon out. Ain't gonna hurt ya.”

She reached under her coat and grabbed one of the sharp bones sticking off her ribs. Broke it free with a twist, biting her tongue against the brief pain. She held the piece of her own skeleton in her hand like a knife, ready.

The big man came closer, straight for her hiding place. He shoved the cardboard box in front of her aside with a violent swipe of his arm and she flinched back in shock. How had he known? She stared up and up at him. He was so massive he blocked out the light from the restaurant’s back door. He smiled down at her, showing long sharp teeth.

“There you are, girlie," he said with a leer.

Frightened, angry, she lunged toward him. Jabbed the sharp piece of bone deep into his leg. He reared back with a howl of rage, slapping at her. She didn't dodge in time. The powerful blow sent her flying across the alleyway, her body landing hard and skidding across the rough concrete. Protruding pieces of bone snapped free with sickening pops from all over her back and side. The impact drove most of the air from her lungs.

He was on her with terrifying speed, his massive hands lifting her into the air. Her hood fell away and she blinked at him, stunned, gasping. Pieces of shattered bone and clotted blood stuck to her, the longer, broken-off bone shards from her back fell out of her coat and dropped to the ground around them with wet clatters as he gave her a shake.

"You an ugly one, ain't ya?" he rumbled, sneering, dark gaze raking her face. Tears ran down her dirty cheek. Tears of breathless pain and aching hunger and angry fear. Then came his rusty, disdainful laughter. "But don't matter what ya look like, ya just gotta be a girl."

He carried her to the limo, threw her nearly limp form into the back, and climbed in after her, still laughing. Then the black car drove off quickly into the strengthening darkness of the night.

* * * * *

The blonde woman stood rigid in front of her desk, fury plain on her face as she glared at the three men who knelt on the rich carpet before her. The glittering New York skyline glowed brightly behind her in the darkness.

“What do you mean you lost him?” she ground out.

"Apologies, Madame Candra," the tall black man said with precise formality, his tone shaky with apprehension. "He seemed to know just where we were and exactly how to shake us. I can't explain it."

"Fools," she spat. "To let yourselves be outwitted by a mere thief!" For her plans to proceed, Essex needed to use the thief first. And he could not do so until her people had located him. Fury was a white fire inside of her.

They cringed away from her anger. She glanced between the three of them, her gaze passing over the spokesman to alight on the man on the end. He was sweating and trembling, wild eyes watching her like a trapped animal.

He was afraid of her. All of them were. And with good reason. A wave of satisfaction briefly calmed her rage, but it almost instantly resurged. Yet, this one was broken by his fear. And a fearful Assassin was useless. She stepped in front of him, glaring down at him as he prostrated himself with a sharp cry, pressing hands and forehead against the carpet.

"You understand that I cannot tolerate failure," she said softly as she gracefully sank into a crouch before him. "Our Guild cannot appear weak."

"No one knows, Madame…" the man began desperately, lifting his head slightly. Her hand snaked out and caught his rough chin, shutting his mouth with a hard snap. His eyes widened in helpless terror.

"Yes, too late. Tupper, isn't it?" she purred, her cold gaze trapping his. She felt him try to move, fail. Panic flared wildly in his eyes. But he was frozen, immobile. She held him in bonds of power far beyond any he could hope to break. She held him by the strength of her will.

She was a mutant. It was her special secret known only to the highest levels of the Guild. Her great power. To entrap, to hold, even to kill with a touch, if she so desired. A contact telekinetic. No one could resist her touch.

Her hand closed tighter on Tupper's jaw. Her power reached easily inside him. Found his heart.

No one could resist her strength.

Squeezed. Tupper's eyes bugged out, he gasped sharply, twisting futilely.

No one save Remy LeBeau.

She clenched her will hard and released. And with a broken cry, Tupper fell to the carpet, a trickle of blood leaking from his mouth. Eyes staring. Dead.

Candra looked down at the corpse at her feet, a surprisingly gentle smile on her face. Her fingertips trailed almost tenderly over Tupper's slack face. Closing his eyes. Then she looked up at the remaining two men, mouth firming into a frown. They watched her blankly, expressions carefully contained but still traces of fear shown in their eyes.

"Find LeBeau," she snapped. "And don't lose him again."

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau sat behind the wheel of a dark blue, safely anonymous, late-model sedan, fingers tapping the rim along to the song on the tinny radio as he slowly advanced through evening traffic.

After shaking the tail, he’d left his motorcycle in a long-term garage, ducked out and flagged a taxi. Just in case they’d planted a tracer on the bike. Taken the cab to a place near a subway station. Ridden that a few stations, then slipped off and taken another cab to a car rental lot in Queens. Certain, at last, that he’d fully lost whomever was following him.

There he’d rented the car he was currently driving using one of several cover identities. And now he was heading out of the city again.

North. He sighed deeply, raking one hand through his hair. No sense denying it. He was going to see her again.

Things were happening around him. Too much interest. Too many people involved. Gambit knew it was time to cut his losses and move on. It was a tried and true practice that had kept him alive and secure for many years now. Safe.

Safe, but lonely. And there was no telling when he would be free to return to New York again.

So he’d console himself by seeing his goddess one last time.

* * * * *

Ororo Monroe held up her hand, cautioning her team to silence, as she peered carefully around the corner of the changing rooms near the pool. The warm, bright summer night still managed to conceal them from casual observation. Hastily stifled giggles came from the girls behind her. Her eyes narrowed in satisfaction as she spotted several boys – and Scott – crouched obliviously behind the long low outdoor storage box that held pool equipment.

She turned, her eyes dancing with merriment, and held up four fingers, then pointed toward the edge of the pool. The three girls nodded eagerly, readying their motley weaponry; water balloons, plastic pitchers of water and one precious water gun.

Ororo and two of the girls – Kitty and Jubilee – were dressed in tank tops and shorts, clothes damp in spots from prior skirmishes. Rogue, dressed in a body-covering leotard and a baggy shirt, gloves on her hands despite the heat, had suffered the most ‘damage’ – her streaked hair hung in wet tangles about her grinning face.

The water-war had evolved from an impromptu pillow fight that had erupted in the rec room when Rogue mistakenly bashed Logan over the head when he walked in, thinking he was St. John. Gasps of horror had raced through the room. Then, with a playful snarl, Logan had surprised them all by grabbing the smirking, unrepentant Rogue and tickling her mercilessly. After a brief moment of shock, shrieking chaos had ensued. Both girls and boys diving to Rogue’s defense. Logan growling and wrestling them all. Finally, when it devolved to chases around the dining hall, Scott had ordered everyone outside. It was summer, for pity's sake, what were they doing inside? The kids obediently trooped out, Logan in the lead.

Where Ororo was waiting for them with the garden hose. She got Logan first, then Scott. Soaking them both thoroughly to the glee of the students before the men managed to wrestle the hose away from her. Then Logan, snarling in mock outrage, chased her laughing across the lawn, a horde of shouting teenagers following in their wake.

She’d breathlessly called time, to Logan’s loud disgust, and haughtily proposed everyone adjourn to the house and prepare for battle. Shaking a large bag of balloons significantly as she did so.

Logan had agreed with a narrowed glare, shaking water out of his hair. Promising dire retribution. As they all returned, suitably attired, Scott showed up in shorts, goggles and devilish smirk bearing his own sack of water weapons which were quickly dispersed among the participants as Ororo passed out her supply of balloons. The war began; splitting, of course, by gender. Boys rallying behind Logan and Scott, the girls behind Ororo. Then quickly dividing into smaller groups as individual feuds erupted.

Water balloons flew. Hoses were deployed. Buckets dragged out of the shed. The kitchen raided for plastic ware. Soon, despite everyone’s best efforts, Scott and his team of some of the younger boys decimated the ranks of their opponents under his expert direction.

But now, Ororo grinned in anticipation, they had them where they wanted them.

The girls were ready. Ororo gave the sign, and they raced around the corner, shouting in triumph as weapons deployed. Brightly colored balloons sailed with unerring accuracy, water flew in arcs from pitchers, streams shot from the single water gun. Scott was turning and he took a balloon square in the chest. Several more followed, soaking him. He surrendered with a rueful, laughing shout, hands in the air. The boys yelled and retaliated anyway. Water and balloons flew. Everyone scattered, laughter ringing across the night-shrouded grounds.

Ororo fled toward the garages, hair flying behind her like a banner, two boys armed with water balloons hot on her heels. They were slowly gaining on her until they were ambushed by another group of girls wielding more water balloons. She stopped at the far corner of the garage to watch, holding her side and gasping for air between joyful giggles as the boys fled off into the night, shrieking girls in hot pursuit.

“Not just a school, den,” a low masculine voice said from the darkness behind her. “You making dis a home too.”

She spun around, laughter instantly stilled, eyes wide. There had been something almost wistful about the words.

“Remy!” she cried.

He was leaning against a low fence nearby, dressed in sleek dark denim and silk. Expensive boots on his feet. His hair was drawn back casually on his neck. Red-on-black eyes gleamed in the distant lights of the driveway. Elegant. Breathtaking. And here. She looked hastily down at herself, lips twisting ruefully as she scanned her own ragged attire. Damp red tank top and ancient, faded cut off shorts with loose strings that trailed down her thighs; her hair was tangled wildly about her face. Not exactly how she’d wanted to look when next she saw him.

“I was… well, we were… playing,” she said with a small shrug, feeling a flush heat her cheeks. "We like them to feel like children too, not just mutants everyone else is afraid to teach." His gaze locked on hers. And suddenly it didn’t matter how she was dressed. Only that he was here again. Her blood pounded heavily in her throat.

“Looks like fun, chère,” he said, a strange sadness in his eyes. But it was swiftly hidden by blazing heat as he slowly scanned her body. “Y’ dressed for de occasion, I see.”

Her nipples peaked under the thin cotton top. Heat flooded her body and she hastily folded her arms over her chest. A slow smile crossed his face. Knowing. Intimate. Almost wicked. She licked suddenly dry lips and his gaze locked on her mouth for a moment. She shuddered, feeling the intensity of his look almost like a touch.

“Would you like to join in?” she asked, her voice soft.

He moved then, coming toward her with all the slow deliberation she remembered. Shaking his head gently, eyes never leaving her. Her pulse jumped wildly, her breath caught in her throat.

“Not tonight, chère,” he said huskily. “Tonight I came to see you.”

A long, clever hand reached out and tugged her hand away from her arm, guiding it to his shoulder as he stepped smoothly against her. She looked up at him helplessly, other hand clutching automatically at his waist. Lips parting. Feeling his free arm slide easily around her back. Fitting her against him as if she belonged there in his arms.

“Did you? I’m glad you did,” she managed to say, staring into the eyes that had haunted her dreams, both waking and sleeping. The world and the night faded away around them.

His was a lean strength. All grace and sleek muscle under the loose silk shirt, the casual jeans. Thighs hard against her own. She gasped, staring at him in mingled surprise and anticipation. Simultaneously dismayed by the suddenness of his reappearance, snared by the instant and inexplicable heat between them, and tormented by a fascination that drew her ever closer despite how little she knew of him. But she wanted to know more. Had to know more.

She slid her hand slowly out from under his, trailing it across the silk covering his strong chest to his throat. Where her fingertips lingered over a pulse that beat just as wildly as her own.

He gave a soft groan, bending toward her. Her breath was coming in small, panting gasps as he neared, her gaze half-frightened. As if the world would change forever once his lips touched hers. He paused, gaze searching hers in gentle concern, his mouth hovering above her own.

“May I kiss you?” he asked softly. A sharp sound left her at the question, like a cry of need. Almost a sob. She was unable to speak, lost in his ruby gaze. Searching for something concrete to explain their connection, this inexplicable draw.

“Chère? Please?” Two soft words filled with need and desire. Longing. And for now it was enough that he felt the same way.

“Yes,” she gasped. Then lifted herself slightly and pressed her mouth to his. He responded instantly, lips parting under the pressure of hers. Then firming, taking control. His mouth shaping hers, tongue tracing the soft inside. Drowning her in the damp warmth, the spicy taste of him.

Her hand slid into his hair, pressing him closer. She felt the heat of him against her, his hard arms around her back, holding her close. Her breasts flattened against his chest, emphasizing their swollen ache. Mouths fused, melded. But gently, delicately. Searching, then finally parting. His tongue stroked her lip a last time as he slowly drew away, making her tremble and gasp.

Her eyelids felt weighted. She fought them open to look at him, to meet his own heavy gaze. To scan the sharp beauty of his face with something like recognition. Blood throbbed in her veins.

“Magnificent,” he said.

A shaky sound left her; like a laugh, but more desperate. She realized that her hand was still clenched in his hair. She loosened her grasp, stroking gently down his neck as she watched him watch her. Her hand stilled against his chest, over the steady throb of his heart. A deep trembling began inside her, an ache and a heat brought on by his touch, his kiss, his presence.

“What is this between us?” she asked. His mouth twitched with rueful amusement.

“Don’t know, chère,” he said. The soft admission thrilling her. He felt it too. And fear rose briefly, was it just hormones? Or loneliness? Then her thoughts scrambled as he brought one hand around from her back, running it slowly up her arm, then up her neck to gently cup her jaw and her chin. Long clever fingers framing her face, thumb stroking the corner of her mouth.

She turned her head slightly, opening her mouth a little so his thumb brushed against her teeth. Her tongue darted out and tasted the saltiness of his skin. He groaned, gaze heating.

“Ah, chère,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful. My wind goddess.”

“Remy,” she said. “Stay with me.”

He stiffened slightly against her, a kind of wariness entering his expression. She sighed, knowing there was so much she didn’t know about him. So much she should ask, should learn first. But she felt a strange sense of security as she looked at him. As if she’d known him forever and had been only waiting for him to appear. His red-on-black gaze searched hers for an endless moment, and she almost held her breath, feeling as if he were about to refuse. She pressed closer, hands sliding around his neck again and felt a loosening in him, a relaxation as he gave in to her touch.

"I can't stay long, chère," he said, eyes lowered. Relief flooded her. And she was lost in the need to touch him, longed to feel his mouth against hers again.

“You’re here for now,” she said, gaze searching his face, lips parted. Feeling reckless and abandoned. Yet knowing this was somehow right.

“Oui.”

“Then come with me,” she said, stepping away, holding his hand firm in her own. He followed hesitantly at first, almost as if he thought he shouldn’t. But she tugged gently and he came, eyes hooded, lips curving sensuously

Smiling, she led him deeper into the woods, away from the mansion and the garage, into the seclusion of the warm night.

* * * * *

Soft, bright scents of earth and grass warmed by a long day under the summer sun rose from under their feet. She looked back once, her dark eyes flashing with heat, her lips curving with sultry promise.

He followed because to not would kill him.

So beautiful. Long white hair falling wild around a face which was still faintly flushed from the earlier game with the children. And his kiss. The soft gleam of smooth skin shown so well by ragged shorts and brief top. The cotton hugging her curves lovingly.

She finally stopped under the broad limbs of a vast oak that grew near the tall concrete walls that surrounded the estate. Below it was darker than the surrounding area, but just beyond the wall a streetlight made the spreading leaves above glow with a faint light. More than enough light for him to see by. But for her? Or was this simply a special place to her? She turned herself and leaned back against the trunk, drawing him closer. He stopped a foot away. Just watching her.

"Remy," she encouraged softly, eyes half-closed, lips parted in anticipation. Hand tugging at his. Very beautiful.

"I can see you, chère," he said quietly. "Can you see me?"

"My eyes will adjust," she answered with a shake of her head. “Come here.”

He took that last step, feeling the hard tips of her breasts brush his chest before he pressed close. She moaned softly, lips glistening. He leaned over her, watching her. Longing already to taste her again.

"First times, chère," he said softly. "They aren't always right. I want this to be right for us."

She laughed, a faint tremor of desire in the sound. "Oh, no pressure, hmm?"  
He lowered his voice and purred, "I live on pressure, chère."  
Then he touched his mouth to hers. Delicately, gently. Her lips fluttered beneath his, then firmed, seeking. He obliged, deepening the caress. Tasting the sweetness of her. The moist heat. Hands gliding up her side, her arm. Feeling her move against him like sleek need.

Her arms slid around him, to his neck, tangling in his drawn-back hair. Soft sounds came from her throat. He pulled back, breaking the kiss slowly. She moaned, her eyes closed, blindingly beautiful in her desire. He couldn’t suppress a pleased smile.

“Ah, chère,” he said, heart aching, blood pounding. Her eyes opened slowly, a gently knowing smile on her lips, and he was lost there for an endless while, all his carefully planned seduction vanishing in the face of her shining desire. After a moment, she lowered her hands to her own sides and impatiently tugged her tank top off. Pressing tightly against him as she lifted the fabric over her head and dropped it to the ground beside them. He stared down at her full breasts, still encased in the silk of her bra, and his mouth went suddenly dry.

She was entrancing. Lovely and sensual. A creature of the night and life. His hands moved down to her ribs, below those enticing breasts, holding her still as he bent and pressed his mouth urgently to the upward curve of one mound where silk gave way to skin. Her breath sucked in and her hands shot out to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. The small sting nothing to him.

He pulled back again and looked deep into her half-lidded eyes, seeing the desire, the need there. Hearing the voice of old caution wailing faintly in the back of his mind. Far too late. He ignored it.

Her hands slipped down from his shoulders, eagerly finding the buttons of his shirt and tugging it open. She bit her lip and moaned as she pulled it free of his pants to spread the silk wide, her hands skimming over his chest, learning the texture of his skin and the feel of the dusting of hair on his chest, finding the hard points of his own nipples and teasing them mercilessly. His body hummed under her touch, came alive.

A harsh moan of pleasure escaped him and she gave a breathless laugh of satisfaction. But there was no edge to the sound, only innocent joy. His heart pounded with a mingling of fear and wonder, his body straining for release already, like the veriest boy.

Her hands soothed him and enflamed him at the same time. Never had he been with someone who roused him to such abandon so quickly. Always before he had been the one in charge, a part of him kept aloof and remote. The guiding force of seduction, but never seduced. Yet his goddess had him on the edge already. Needy and wanting. Willing to surrender all.

He dropped to his knees as the realization hit him. Simultaneously terrified and elated. She was tenderness and desire and hope. A chance for redemption or destruction. He looked up into her face and knew his heart would never be the same again.

* * * * *

He knelt before her, staring up at her, those demon’s eyes gleaming strangely in the night. With a light there that stole her breath with its intensity. As if he were offering her everything in the universe, or just all of himself in that timeless moment. Her heart leaped in response, wanting to cradle and protect him and shower him with all of her self in return.

Then nimble fingers were tugging at the buttons on her shorts, pulling them open, sliding inside to touch her trembling skin until sensation overwhelmed her. She rolled her head back against the tree, moaning, biting at her lower lip. Her hands flexed on his hard shoulders, nails biting in gently through the silk shirt still covering them. His touch was like fire, sending hot pleasure through her. She moaned again.

Clever fingers slid along the peak of her hip bones, spreading the shorts open wide, exposing the low silky panties she wore. He leaned forward and pressed lips and tongue avidly to the skin under her bellybutton, trailing down urgently until teeth nipped at the concealing panties, sending more shivers of delight through her. He paused then, turning his head to press his slightly rough cheek to the place over her womb, head bent to expose the nape of his neck, breath ragged and hot against her body.

“Ah, chère, so very beautiful,” he said, voice hoarse. He trembled slightly against her. As if he too was afraid this was only a dream. But it was real. His hands flexed on her hips and yet he stayed in that pose as if somehow paralyzed.

Impatient, she shimmed her hips and the shorts dropped down her legs. He groaned in response, drawing back to look at her, to see the pale swatch of hair barely hidden under the sheer panties. Fingers easing back to slip under the edge of the fabric. Smoothing gently down that sleek hair, making her hips pulse in anticipation. So close. His restrained caress tormenting her.

“Please, will you touch me?” she asked, not caring if she was begging.

He looked up at her, capturing her gaze. Then his fingers tightened on her panties, slipping them slowly down her thighs, hands smoothing down her skin as they went. Baring her. Her breathing caught, picked up speed, her gaze trapped in his, her mind spinning with desire. So intense, his look. And he didn’t break it as he leaned close, stretching down to lift one foot and draw both panties and shorts away from her legs, freeing her. He placed her foot back on the ground slightly further away, opening her. She trembled, gasping helplessly as his hands moved slowly back up to her hips, framing her.

“I will touch you, chère,” he said, like a promise. Need almost like pain shot through her. She moaned and closed her eyes, unable to bear his gaze any longer. Thumbs stroked the tender skin at the join of her thighs, making her tremble. Warm breath passed through the hair between her legs. Anticipation and desire whipped to fever-pitch.

“I want to bring you pleasure first, so I can feel you all hot and swollen around me when I finally come inside you.” His voice was like silk. His words made her tremble and gasp. So frank and bare. Explicit in what he wanted, but said with such intensity, such need that it only inflamed her more.

She shuddered hard, clutching him tightly.

“Yes,” she said, “Remy, yes.”

His thumbs stroked against her, parting her further. Then moist heat pressed against her and a lash of fire raced through her at the first clever stroke of his tongue. So close to peak already that her body shook in instant reaction, her fingers clenching hard on his shoulders. Her head rolled back against the trunk of the old tree and she sobbed with abandon under his knowing, merciless touch. He paused a moment and her fingernails bit hard into his skin, urging him on. He laughed softly at her need, her impatience and the vibrations made her moan as his mouth closed on her again, his tongue stroked over her, followed by the slow, sure probe of a finger into her tense body.

Then she was shaking, crying out as brilliant fire raced through her. Blood surging, hips bucking, she arched helplessly up. Her mouth opened on a silent scream, eyes closed as she shattered into ecstasy. But strong, sure hands held her to the tree, one splayed against her stomach, the other cupping her inner thigh. He held himself still against her, taking the hard clench of leg, the inner ripples of her release as his due

“Remy,” she gasped finally, feeling limp and drained by the speed and power of the pleasure he’d given her. “Oh, Remy.”

He surged to his feet, but his hands slid slowly up her body never lifting from her skin. Filling every sweat-damp hollow, riding every rise of her flesh. Making her cry out as his hands passed over her swollen breasts, her sensitive nipples. She clutched at his back under the silk shirt desperately. His erection hard and hot against her through his jeans. He finally pressed his face to her neck, his own breathing fast and hard.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispered, lips brushing the tender skin under her ear. She shuddered and cried out softly at his words, wanting it too, but suddenly afraid of the strength of the passion between them. So fast. So consuming. Leaving her nothing but him to cling to, his strength to rely on.

He drew back just enough for the warm night air to come between them and she didn’t fall. His hands moved to brace himself over her against the tree. Her arms rose to wind around his neck as her eyelids parted slowly so she could see him; his sharply handsome face barely outlined by faint light. Trembling. But he was trembling too.

“Look in my left back pocket,” he said, voice hoarse. She blinked at him in hazy confusion for an instant until his intent look penetrated. Then her hands moved down around his waist under the opened shirt to find his hip, trailed down and slid lightly into the pocket, drawing out a slim pouch.

“You got an easy touch, chère,” he whispered, amused. “Ever pick pockets?”

She smiled shakily at him, attention returning to her hands, feeling clumsy in the afterglow. Not a wallet, but a small zippered bag. She fumbled briefly with it, spilling out several foil packets as the zipper gave suddenly. Wanting to laugh, but not knowing how at the moment. She caught one in her hand, let the rest rain down on the ground below. He made no move to help her, his gaze locked on her face.

“You put it on me, chère,” he said, voice like liquid heat in the darkness. Full of promise and desire. “Make me safe for you.”

“Safe?” She couldn’t help teasing.

He chuckled, the sound rich, caressing. “Safer, then.”

She swallowed hard, reaching for his skin again, trailing her hands down his smoothly muscled belly to the belt holding on his jeans. She tugged the buckle open impatiently, her tongue running over her lower lip. He gave a soft groan and leaned forward until his lips brushed her cheek.

She turned her head and met his mouth with hers; lost for an endless while in the moist heat, the sharp flavor that was both him and her, the firm, easy skill. Then he lowered one hand down to guide her hands back to their forgotten task even as his mouth moved against hers. He helped her open the top button of his jeans, then she brushed his hand back as she attacked the rest of the buttons. While his tongue captured hers, curling around it, drawing it forward so he could suck gently on it. She moaned and clutched at his hips to steady herself, distracted by his kiss.

He drew away with a reluctant murmur of, “chère, please”, his hand closing around one wrist. She blinked her eyes open, looking into the fire of his. Sighing as she leaned toward him, intent on his mouth again.

“Have mercy, chère,” he said, raising his head slightly, denying her his lips. “Cover me, please.”

“Yes, sorry,” she sighed. Then she focused on the foil packet in her hand. Tore it open and let it fall to the ground after removing the contents. Then reached for his waist and pushed his opened jeans aside to find his bare erection just inside, surging free into her hand.

“No underwear?” she said in laughing, eager surprise. He just gave a small shrug, then shuddered and moaned as she gently stroked the silken skin, exploring his erection, learning the shape and feel of him.

He sucked in a sharp breath and she looked up into his tormented gaze, a small smile of satisfaction creeping onto her lips. She affected him in the same way he affected her. There was a sense of rightness and safety in the parity.

“Y’ killin’ me, chère,” he groaned, those fine lips parted as he panted desperately.

Pushing his jeans aside, she braced him in her hand then brushed a quick thumb across the weeping head before she carefully rolled the condom down over him. Smoothing it with care into place.

Then she lifted her thumb to her mouth and licked it clean of the salty fluid, her gaze rising to meet his. He was watching her with an intensity that bordered on violent; raw, bare need in his eyes. His mouth quirked up in a sharp, dangerous smile as he leaned close.

Then that beautiful mouth was on hers, tongue delving deep inside as if seeking the flavor she’d just sampled. Wild and desperate and devouring. She clutched him close, one arm around his waist under the shirt, the other encircling his neck. Rubbing her aching nipples against his hard flesh. Craving the feel of him. Sighing. Wanting.

He pressed close against her, so hard, so warm. His mouth covering hers, his breath hers. Her hand tangled in the sleek silk of his hair, drawing him closer.

A strong arm slid between her and the tree, protecting her skin. The other grasped her leg, lifting her slightly. Until she could feel him, hot, heavy, pressing against her aching emptiness. She moaned into his mouth. Wanting him. Wanting him inside her.

She gasped as with a sudden move, he lifted her into the air, holding her effortlessly high. She slid her thighs around his hips, felt him stroke against her once, then slide slowly, surely inside of her. Hard. Deep. Filling her so tightly. She wrenched her lips away from his, gasping, sobbing. Fingers clenching on his back, in his hair. Beset by the harsh joy, the sheer stretching pain-pleasure of him inside her at last.

"Remy," she groaned helplessly, shuddering, thighs clenching tightly around him. His lips found her throat, his breath hot on her for an instant, searing.

"I've got you, chère," he murmured. But he held still inside her for a moment, letting her feel him, adjust to him, his body heavy against her but not crushing her, his arm still cushioning her back from the tree. She moaned again, chin tilting up, eyes pressed closed. Panting. Feeling. Aching.

“Are you ready, mon coeur?” he asked, an edge of desperation to his voice. Her eyes fluttered partly open to see his face etched with need, the effort of restraint.

"Remy, yes, oh, yes I’m ready," she breathed, her eyes glazed with need. His head dropped toward her, mouth taking hers as he began to move inside of her.

Impressions flashed into her memory, seared there by heat and desire. His lean body moving with sure strength against her. His mouth over hers, shaping her mouth relentlessly to his need; hot, demanding. His hard erection filling her completely with each stroke. The silk of his hair and the smoothness of his skin under her hands. The mingled scent of him and of her rising about them in the warm summer night. The wet sound of his body moving inside hers.

It took only moments or perhaps forever before she was arching helplessly up, body quaking as fiery release rolled through her again. Stealing her breath and leaving her only his.

His arms shook around her in reaction, holding her tight. He swallowed down her keen as he moved relentlessly on, pushing deep once more through her tender spasms and the hard clutch of her thighs. Until he froze against her, eyes closed, face caught in a mask of exquisite pleasure that seemed almost painful as he joined her in release. He twisted his mouth away from hers to give a low, hoarse cry. The sound at once of fulfillment and anguish.

Her hands held him close as he leaned desperately against the tree for a moment, before turning with easy strength to settle them both carefully to the leaf-strewn ground. He positioned her over his lap with care, hissing as she moved on him, their bodies still joined, her arms now wrapped around his neck.

He let his head fall back against the tree and she burrowed her face against his neck, feeling his pulse pounding against her forehead almost as fast as her own. Breath calming slowly. Heated flesh cooling. Frantic pulses easing.

They stayed enveloped in each other for a long while, silence thick about them in the warm summer night.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau sat with his back to a vast spreading oak that grew at the edge of the mansion's grounds, a goddess in his arms. The peaceful darkness of the rural summer night surrounded them. And he was suddenly aware he held forever in his arms. He could feel it. As certain and true as anything he'd ever felt before.

It was far too late to leave. For good or for ill, she was part of him now. Ororo Monroe: mutant, teacher, warrior, woman. And his heart's desire.

She lifted her head from his half-bare chest, looking up into his eyes. Her lips were swollen from the pressure of his mouth, pale hair tangled from his hands, but her eyes were gleaming with an emotion wholly her own, warm and gentle.

"You don't know me, chère," he said, trying to warn her, prepare her. He owed her that, at least, when what he should do was leave and never see her again so that the nightmares of his past wouldn't ever have the chance to ensnare her as well. But she just smiled at him tenderly, a hand rising to touch his cheek, fingers rubbing gently across the stubble starting to show there. He caught her hand in his, pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips, then pressed them to the bare skin over his heart. He saw her pulse jump in her throat.

“So tell me,” she said, voice husky with renewed desire.

He looked down at her and let a secretive, amused smile tug at his lips.

“Ask,” he said, raising a brow in challenge. She gave a little moue of annoyance, then smiled again, shifting herself against him so that she could see his face more comfortably. Her hands slid idly over his skin, distracting him. Her touch still a wonder.

“Your accent. It comes and goes. Are you from Quebec? Or France?” she asked, frowning thoughtfully. He laughed out loud, surprised, delighted.

“Neither, but I lived in Paris for almost five years,” he said in a voice like a newscaster’s, flat and bland. Then he chuckled, slowing and thickening his words deliberately. “De accent, it pure tourist Cajun, chère. From de streets o’ Nawlens.”

“New Orleans?” she said curiously. He nodded, still smiling. “You have family there?”

His amusement vanished.

“I have no family, chère,” he said somberly. Heart aching for all he’d given up. All he could never have again. Lost to him because of one woman’s greed and thirst for power. His goddess sat up in his lap, hand rising to touch his face, stroke his cheek. Instinctively offering comfort.

“I’m so sorry, Remy,” she said, eyes dark with sorrow.

“Happened a long time ago, chère,” he said quietly, feeling a pang of guilt for misleading her, but finding it too difficult to explain the complications and the bitter choices of his life right then. The price of freedom for himself – and the ones he loved – had been high. Was still high.

“Well, then I know enough to start," she said, bravely continuing on. "You are a skilled, intelligent, kind and honorable man, Remy LeBeau." Her words humbled him. Then she lifted a brow imperiously. "And just how much do you think you know about me, anyway?"

"I know you have a tender heart; kids and friends who love you. You're loyal and fierce; you stand by those you love no matter the danger. You are brave. A fighter. Yet wise and gentle and beautiful, like a goddess," he said, his hands tightening on her fractionally. She flushed faintly, watching him with weary eyes.

"If only I was all those things," she whispered.

"You are, chère," he said softly. "I know it."

“Well, now I really think I’m gonna puke,” a hard male voice said suddenly from the darkness. Remy came instantly alert, wary gaze tracking and locking on the man called Logan where he stood, arms folded over his chest, shoulder propped against a smaller tree beyond the canopy of the oak above them. Somehow he’d managed to sneak up on them. Remy felt dismay race through him. She’d had him so distracted he hadn’t even noticed. Not a good sign.

Ororo sat bolt-upright, glaring into the darkness. He loosened his hold on her but couldn’t let her pull completely away. She was tense in his arms.

“Very funny, Logan,” she said, voice sharp with embarrassed anger. “How long have you been there?”

The man gave a snort of disgust. “Not long.”

Remy knew he was lying by the wicked gleam in his eye. And he knew Logan probably also had an excellent idea of what exactly they’d been up to only a short time before. He glared at him. If this Logan made any snide remarks and hurt his stormy goddess’ feelings he’d feed him an entire pack of cards – after he charged them up good.

“Not long,” Ororo repeated under her breath, clearly not believing him either. “What are you doing out here, Logan?”

“Playtime’s over. Scotty got worried when you didn’t show up with the rest of the kids.”

She slid out of his arms, brushing bits of grass and old leaves off her legs as she stood. Still glaring at Logan.

“Scott worries too much,” she said stiffly. “I’m well able to take care of myself.” Anger under firm control, but still evident, fed by embarrassment. Remy climbed to his feet behind her, not bothering to button his shirt yet, but heartily glad now that her sense of responsibility had prodded them to pull their clothes back on.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Logan said sourly. Remy shot him a hard look, which Logan returned after adding a sneer. "C'mon, Cyke's waiting.

* * * * *

When she woke it was to cool comfort and the feel of softness under her body. It was dark, not completely, but dark enough that she had to wait for her eyes to adjust.

She was in a small room. It looked like a bedroom. Sparsely furnished with single bed, small dresser, and a nightstand with a lamp. A window on the opposite wall allowed the faint light to fall in bars across the floor.

She sat up, feeling the familiar drag of protruding bone growths from her legs and side against fabric. Catching and snagging at the bedspread. Her raincoat was gone but she still wore the tattered shorts and tube top that were all she could find to cover herself around the irregular growths.

She remembered the big man from the limo. That she’d stabbed him with one of her bones and then he’d slapped her clear across the alley. Her face and side still ached. As did her stomach.

The floor was cool under her feet as she slid off the bed. Wary, she lifted the blinds slightly away from the window to peer outside. Heavy bars covered the window on the outside. Beyond it was dark. Darker than it should be in the city. She could just make out a heavy hedge, some grass, bushes. Two floors below. Fear and anxiety made her flinch at the ringing sound the blinds made as she let them fall back against the windowpane.

Why had the big man brought her here? And where was she?

She moved quietly to the door, testing the knob carefully as if she were back at home trying to sneak out for the night without alerting her mother. The door opened easily. She peeked out, saw a carpeted hallway beyond, light coming from somewhere further down it. She slipped out, closing the door carefully behind her.

As she crept down the hall, the sound of a voice came to her. She froze in the middle of the hall, listening hard. It stayed in one place, not moving toward her and she relaxed fractionally.

“The Guild has not yet re-located our quarry,” the smooth, cold voice said. “And it is necessary for me to return to the city tomorrow despite this delay. I will inform you when I have need of you again.”

“What about the girl?” She recognized the harsh voice of the big man from the alley and shrank back against a wall, careful to keep her bones from scraping against it and giving her away.

“Feed her, but keep her contained. It may take several days for the Guild to stumble on him again. I want her ready to use at a moment’s notice.”

There was a long silence from the room ahead and she listened hard, wondering what was going on. The floor creaked somewhere ahead of her and shadows moved through the light. She scanned the dark hall behind her, wondering if there was somewhere else she could go, maybe to find another window without bars, when she heard a louder creak closer. Then a hard hand closed around her arm and pulled her forward toward the light before she could react.

“Smelled ya, girlie.” The big blond man glared down at her as he dragged her the rest of the way into the room, sharp teeth bared in a snarl as he gave her a shake that made her head snap back and her teeth ache. She stared fearfully up at him, petrified, then anger rose to her defense and she glared back at him. She’d stabbed him once, she’d do it again if he tried anything.

“Mr. Creed,” the cold voice said firmly. “Do not damage her unduly.” She looked over at the owner of the other voice, hoping against hope for help. A dark haired man sat at ease in an armchair, legs crossed at the knee, hands draped over the arms of the chair as he watched her from dark eyes that sent a chill through her. Cold and remote. He did not seem at all surprised or revolted by her appearance. As if raw, ragged bones that poked through skin were somehow normal.

“Why’d you snatch me – you some kind of pervo?” she sneered, fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. A dark brow rose in that pale face, but no emotion accompanied the gesture. And she was suddenly more frightened of the man in the chair than the beast-like man who held her arm in a painful grasp.

“If you behave you will remain unharmed,” the sinister man said. “Mr. Creed will see that you have food and a chance to refresh yourself. You could be our guest for some time. I suggest you take advantage of it. Far better than the streets and the risk of discovery by humans who would only revile you, don’t you think?”

“Depends what you want me to do, old man,” she snapped, glaring defiantly. The big guy – Creed – growled a warning at her, but she just stared at the man in the chair. He was clearly the one in charge.

“What I want, child, is for you to cooperate,” he said, his gaze narrowing on her in a way that made fear spike through her like one of her bones. “Or I will have Mr. Creed dispose of you and find me another subject.”

* * * * *

Scott was waiting for them in the front hall, by the rec room door. Hands stuck in his slacks pockets in a deceptively casual pose. But he was tense and upset, Ororo could tell.

Scott’s mouth twitched briefly when he saw Remy behind her, his chin lifting.

"The Professor's office?" he offered. She nodded, glancing back at Remy. He was silent, red-on-black eyes scanning the main hall that he'd seen only briefly once before. On the walk back he'd buttoned his shirt and tucked it in. Somehow managing to look as cool and elegant as he had when he first arrived. She knew there were leaves and bits of grass still caught in her own hair. She refused to pick them out now.

A couple of kids poked their heads around the rec room door curiously, then gaped at Remy in surprise. He shot them a quick smile, inclining his head with exaggerated politeness. They backed away, eyes wide, unsure how to react to this unknown adult – especially since his eyes marked him as a mutant too.

Scott frowned and gestured them all into Xavier's office, leading the way. Logan brought up the rear, closing the door behind himself quietly and leaning back against it, arms across his chest. As if keeping guard.

Ororo went toward the couch, not wanting to stand in front of the Professor's desk and feel like a misbehaving student called in for discipline. She was an adult. Her choices were her own responsibility. She settled on the arm of the couch and folded her hands in her lap. The picture of grace and serenity. Or at least she tried to be.

Remy stopped in front of her. His expression somber, gaze searching hers in wary concern. The Professor's office was heavily air conditioned. She shivered slightly in the dry air and he frowned.

"Okay, chère?" he asked softly. She smiled at him and nodded. He smiled briefly back, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes.

Scott was watching them in that odd sideways way he had when he was disturbed. Body rigid, head held cocked.

"You 'Cyke'?" Remy asked suddenly, putting Scott slightly on the defensive. And his accent was thick, which she was already starting to recognize as Remy at his most disarming.

"Cyclops, actually," Scott said, brow rising above his glasses.

"For de mask I saw y' wearin' dat first night?" Remy said, gesturing broadly at his own face, toward his eyes. Scott nodded slowly.

"Y' got eyes like mine den, mon ami?"

"Not exactly," Scott said, a sharp grin touching his lips. Recognizing that Remy had taken control of the conversation, and allowing it. For now. She relaxed slightly. There was no imminent danger of a battle -– or a scathing lecture. Both of which she was fully aware Scott Summers was capable of delivering. "They constantly emit force beams. The glasses keep it in check."

"Can't take dem off den? Ever?"

"No, never," Scott replied, mouth grim. Remy gave an acknowledging nod, strangely respectful. But then, with his alien eyes, he was the closest of them to understanding Scott’s dilemma. Scott’s expression didn’t change, but she could see a slight easing of tension in his posture. Remy had surprised him, she could tell.

"Cyclops. Storm," Remy went on, nodding at first Scott, then her. Then he jerked his head back toward Logan, not bothering to turn around. "What do y' call Mr. Attitude back dere?"

"Wolverine," Logan replied on cue, his voice sharp. Remy gave a tight smile and she felt a quick sinking in her stomach at the gleam in his eyes. Maybe there would be a fight after all. But Scott saw it too and he gave Remy an amused and surprisingly sympathetic look. Patience for the Wolverine.

"An' your lady doctor? De Professor?"

"Jean rarely goes into the field. The Professor never," Scott said. "They don't need code names."

"Well den, ‘Gambit’ right at home here," Remy said, a wicked smile on his mouth.

Logan shifted away from the door, paced further into the room, his hands lowered to his sides, as if ready for battle. A dark glower on his face.

"What makes you think we want you here, Cajun?" Logan snarled. Ororo shot a hard look at him. His words certainly confirmed how long he'd been watching them outside.

"Logan," Scott said warningly, still watching Remy closely. "Does this mean you're interested in becoming involved in the school now?"

"Don't know about the school, but I'd like to work with my Stormy," Remy replied calmly.

"Stormy?" she repeated indignantly as she tried to still the sudden leap of joy his words gave her. Too fast, too soon, wasn’t it?

Then Remy flashed her a sly, heated grin and a look from the side of his eyes that threatened to steal her breath. She hastily folded her arms over her chest as her body reacted to that look and heat flooded her veins. Too new to the raw desire that tied them to control it yet.

She fought down her embarrassment, her sense of exposure. So private and so alone for so long, then this man helplessly reduced her to adolescent reactions with just a look. She let her gaze run over him and saw that his own body had reacted as well. Just like hers. But he was relaxed and unashamed, a faintly knowing grin on those wonderful lips. The sheer arrogance of him reassured her in some inexplicable way.

"The school, the team, and everything? We're here for the students first, LeBeau," Scott said his face controlled. But she knew he'd witnessed their responses. As had Logan. "It's the Professor's dream that through this school – and other projects – we can work toward a day when mutants are accepted into regular society."

She met Remy's gaze again as Scott spoke, drowning in those red-on-black eyes. Wanting again. Found an answering fire there, carefully banked. He smiled gently at her, letting her know he understood. That she wasn't alone. Then he looked away, over to Scott, and she could breathe again.

"Our primary goal is to help the kids learn to control their powers so they won't be a danger to themselves and everyone around them," Scott said, plowing on despite the byplay between them. For which she was desperately grateful. There was no way she was looking at Logan. "Yet we also try to give them an education that will enable them to rejoin society as they choose."

"Sure you want me teaching your kids, Summers?" Remy asked. "The things I know best might not meet your… expectations."

"We're always looking for people daring enough to take on teenagers," Scott said dryly. "You think breaking and entering is hazardous, then you haven't been here during finals week."

"I'm not a teacher," Remy said sharply, his lean body tense. "I'm a thief."

"Now," Scott said with a carefully casual shrug. "But all of us were something else before we came here. I was an orphan and a runaway."

Remy’s attention sharpened suddenly and he looked at Scott with a strange intensity. "Xavier takes in street kids?"

Scott frowned and shifted on his feet. "Some of our kids are sent here by parents that just can't deal with a teenager who can freeze the pipes in their house with a thought. But we find a lot of them on the streets – too scared to stay at home. Or who have been driven out by parents who are afraid of them."

She watched Remy closely, wondering what nerve had been struck by Scott's words. He'd lost his own family long ago, he'd told her. He was alone. Had he grown up on the streets, like Scott? Her heart ached for him. She too understood what it was to lose family. Strange that most of the ones the Professor had managed to gather lacked close family. Or was it just that he tacitly acknowledged the price that might be paid by those on the front lines in their undeclared war against the ones who would drive the wedges of hostility, fear and misunderstanding deeper between humans and mutants?

"Dis place sounds like a challenge, mon ami," Remy said and gave a light laugh, then was silent for a long moment, his face stilling into thoughtful lines. She noticed he was careful not to look at her, but kept his attention on Scott.

"We give each other a trial period, hein?" he said finally. "See how we work together?"

Scott frowned at him, obviously hoping for more of a commitment than that.

"I think that's a good idea," she spoke up, amazed to find her voice almost normal. At least steady. "Teaching really isn't for everyone, Scott. And I'm sure Remy could be useful to the team and the school in other ways."

She met Scott's gaze briefly through his red lenses and remembered the Professor's comments about putting Remy's thieving skills to work for them, if necessary. She knew it galled Scott to think there were things the team couldn't handle, but he was practical enough to accept the fact without argument. Logan made a sharp sound of annoyance, but no other protest.

“So, just like dat, I’m part of your school?” Remy said, folding his arms over his chest as he examined Scott intently through narrowed eyes. “You don’t know all dat much about me, mon ami.”

“I know you’ve controlled your mutation. That you’ve managed to blend into and even prosper in regular society. Those are valuable skills to pass along.” Scott gave a tight smile. “And this will be a trial period on both sides, of course.”

Remy smiled slowly, graciously in return, an elegant brow rising.

"Of course."

Her heart thundered wildly in her chest as he turned to face her, still smiling. He'd agreed to work with them. With the school, the team, and with her. It was a chance. To learn about him, about this strange fire between them. And a possibility to see if, together, they could make of it something more.

* * * * *

Remy had finally realized, when Summers led them all into the tastefully appointed office, that the Professor and Dr. Grey weren't present. He no longer needed to shield so strongly.

He dropped his shields only slightly out of habit and caution, but being able to gather a sense of the emotions around him had become almost second nature. Alarmed, he'd immediately thrown them back up tight again to protect himself.

His goddess, Ororo, was a whirlwind; controlled, but still deep and strong and wild. Threatening to draw him into her need, her longing and never let him go. Warmth and affection and helpless desire radiated from her like light, tempting him, bathing him in emotions he'd so seldom felt directed his way. At least not of the softer variety. He had to block her out or take her where she sat. And that wasn't professional, he mocked himself. No, not at all.

Logan was rage. Dark, confused, desperate. Anger and resentment and fear boiling under the surface, held back by a grudging admiration for Scott, a true respect for Xavier's ideals and a fiercely protective, paternal connection to one of the students. A girl. Logan didn't seem to believe in the dream itself, but more in the others who followed it; Ororo and Jean and Scott. But always underneath the surface lurked the rage, and the fear.

Summers, on the other hand, was control. Hard to read, but not hostile. Focused, self-possessed, and fervent. He believed everything he'd said, but it was leavened with a healthy sense of pragmatism. A practical convert. The true strength behind Xavier's dream.

When he agreed to the trial period, he wondered if he was really fooling any of them. For he felt well and truly caught by his Stormy.

Summers had simply nodded. Pleased, but not gloating in any way. Then had sent Logan and his goddess out to supervise the students again. She had left reluctantly and with a faintly concerned look. He'd tried to reassure her with a smile.

"Seems like a lot of kids for just the five of you to handle," he found himself saying to Summers once they were alone.

"The older ones help quite a bit," the other man answered, watching him from behind his red lenses. He was starting to get the hang of catching his gaze. If the light was right, you could do it. "Professor or not, you can get in here any time you want, can't you?"

He smiled smoothly and gave a casual shrug. "If de wind is right," he said. Summers shifted, his expression wry. Catching both meanings easily.

“Then I might as well give you the full tour…” Remy held up his hand, stopping the other man as he started to move toward the door.

“This deal of ours… I still have prior obligations,” he said quietly, watching Summers carefully without being too obvious about it, lowering his shields just enough to read the man beside him.

“Oh?” Summers said and his sense flared with a brief protective suspicion that centered around Ororo. It made Remy feel better to know she had a friend who worried about her happiness as much as he did.

“Jobs. Contracts,” Remy said, feeling Summers relax slightly. “Things I might have to take care of from time to time.”

“So you have a life of your own,” Summers said with a small shrug, calming, a strange sense of confidence about him. “We’re not asking you to give everything else up, just to help us out.” He didn’t need empathy to feel the unspoken ‘yet’. The other man was accepting, if a little annoyed. Apparently this life was more than enough for Scott Summers. And seeing the scope of the school and Xavier’s dream, Remy could well understand that. He just wasn’t sure the same would be true for him.

“Dat’s what de trial period is for, mon ami,” he said quietly. “To make sure we both happy.” Irritation flared from Summers, and he sensed it centered around Logan for some odd reason, as well as him. Empathy wasn’t telepathy. He could read emotions and some of their connotations, not thoughts. But the more familiar he became with someone, the easier it was to read them.

Then Summers grew more serious, focused. "You didn't retrieve the data for the client, so we can probably expect someone else to try soon, can't we?"

"Maybe," Remy said cautiously. "I put the warning out, as I said I would. But there's always some puppy has to prove himself by taking a job no one else will."

"I realize that," Summers said carefully. Remy saw the faint frown that knit the other man's brow as he considered how best to work around to what he wanted to ask. He took pity on him, for his goddess' sake. They needed to know.

"The client was a man who goes by the name of Essex," he said, then tensed as Summers suddenly flared with alarm before he closed his emotions down. His face went still and intent.

"Did you find out anything else about him?"

"Not yet. Just that I don't like his methods," Remy said warily. Wondering about the strength of Summers’ inside reaction.

"Why's that?"

"He sent three heavies after me this morning." He deliberately didn't mention the expert tail he'd shed a few hours later too. Or that he was fairly certain this Essex had had Bernard killed. Those were his loose ends to resolve.

"What did they want?" Summers said.

Remy shrugged. "Probably wanted to 'persuade' me to take the job on again. Knowing what I know about your lady doctor and the professor, now I see why."

"Yes, because of your telepathic shields," Summers said. "The Professor and Jean figured it out, of course. They’d both really appreciate a chance to study your full capabilities. Jean was very impressed with your shielding."

The Professor’s and Jean’s interest was almost a given, with their own abilities. He'd been flattered into thinking it was his thieving skills alone that had made him prime for this job. The continuing interest in him was quickly dispersing that vanity. But it disturbed him to realize that someone he didn’t even know had figured out his secret. Could this Essex be a telepath too and had somehow spotted him from afar? Or had he been found out another way? The list of those who knew about his mental abilities was short. Dread filled him and his breath hissed in.

Summers was watching him closely now, that intent focus attracted by his continued silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“No’ting,” Remy answered softly, his accent thickening as fear raced through him. "Just not used t' meetin' fellow mutants dat aren't out t' kill me is all."

Summers frowned again, his emotions still under tight control.

"I gave you de information so y' can watch out for dis Essex. Maybe Xavier zap his mind or somet'ing," Remy said.

"We don't work that way, LeBeau," Summers said, his tone cold, stiff.

Remy snorted and shook his head. "You haven't met de same kind’a bastards I have den, mon ami."

Summers surprised him with a snort of his own. "Don't bet on that."

* * * * *

When she and Logan came out of the office it was to find a small cluster of the older students lying in wait for them; St. John, Jubilee, Rogue and Kitty. Bobby and Piotr were off with their parents for the summer. Kitty was due to leave for a visit home next week. The rest would stay. Jubilee was an orphan and a ward of the Professor’s. St. John’s parents had dropped him at the school and given strict instructions for him to stay away from them after the manifestation of his power to control and enhance flame burned down their house. Rogue had yet to build up the courage to contact her family again.

“Hey, Ms Monroe,” Jubilee called around a habitual wad of gum. “Who’s the new guy? Is he going to be a teacher?” The girls all had enrapt looks on their faces and she sighed internally, hoping Remy knew how to deal sensitively with teenage girl crushes. He was just too handsome for his own good. St. John wore a mask of indifference, but he was clearly interested too. It wasn’t often they got to meet new adult mutants.

“Yeah, what’s he do?” St. John asked.

Logan gave a snort of annoyance. “Besides piss me off?” he said under his breath.

Ororo heard him but the kids didn’t. She shot him a sharp look, then blanched as she realized she didn’t know what Remy’s mutant power might be other than he could see in the dark and had formidable mental shields.

“He’s an energy converter – like Mr. Summers,” she hedged, remembering something Jean had mentioned. The kids just looked blank at this pronouncement, until Logan came to her rescue.

“He can make things explode,” he said, a darkly amused look on his face. Ororo frowned at him.

“Cool! Like me! Alright!” Jubilee squealed with glee, making all of them wince. Then she fell dramatically onto Kitty’s shoulder, a smug look of near-triumph on her face. One-upping her classmates through sheer similarity, apparently. Kitty pushed her away with a huff of annoyance, rolling her eyes in a long-suffering fashion. Ororo struggled to hide her amusement over their byplay, trading glances with Logan who just looked briefly heavenward. The surprisingly relaxed gesture almost made her laugh.

St. John just winced in disgust, trying to preserve his disinterested image. But he was just as intrigued as the girls were. “Great. More blown up stuff.”

“Hey, it’s better than just charred, pyro-boy,” Jubilee said, sticking her tongue out at St. John who sneered back at her. Ororo frowned at Jubilee warningly. The girl looked only slightly abashed.

“What’s his name?” Kitty asked. Ororo smiled gently.

“Remy LeBeau.”

“Is he staying long?” Rogue asked, her tone faintly concerned as she glanced between the two teachers. The girl was more sensitive than most to Logan’s moods. Ororo’s own mood chilled. She shrugged slightly. Logan smirked at her and she felt briefly like hitting him.

“We will just have to see,” she said. “Now, isn’t it time for everyone to head upstairs for bed?”

* * * * *

The tour had started on the main floor and covered the center wing that housed most of the classrooms and public rooms. They avoided the boys and girls dorm wings for the time being as the others were trying to get the kids to settle for the night. So Summers had taken him downstairs, after showing him the teacher’s code that enabled the elevator to access it.

There he found out that the pipes marked jet fuel that had puzzled him so when he broke in the first time actually did carry fuel for a sleek black jet parked in a hanger hidden under the basketball court. The garden shed concealed the main exhaust venting port for the hanger.

The jet was obviously Scott Summers’ pride and joy.

“I flew a fighter jet once. F-14,” Remy said quietly as they stood under the wing. Scott raised a brow at him. “Stole it from de local Air Force base.”

Scott laughed disbelievingly. Then sobered at Remy’s confident look. “You didn’t.”

Remy nodded, a devilish gleam in his eye as he looked at the black plane appraisingly. “On a dare. I was fourteen. Ditched her in de Gulf.”

He didn't feel it necessary to describe his nearly paralyzing terror when the plane went out of control, his panicked search for the ejection handle, the nightmare of the canopy blowing away just before the escape jets under the seat drove the breath from his lungs, the blood from his brain. Then the nearly eleven hours he'd spent in the sea, avoiding both the Air Force's searchers and sharks until his poppa and the clan could reach him. The Air Force base’s security had improved dramatically after the incident, however, so he had at least felt partially vindicated.

He'd been a wild boy then, barely tamed from his years on the street and filled with the dangerous knowledge and skills of his clan. His poppa had tanned his ass for that stunt, no matter his age. Then hugged him breathless-tight even as he cursed him for being three kinds of fool to take such a public risk.

Scott gave him a pained look and a deep sigh. "Into the ocean?"

Remy gave him a rueful but completely unrepentant smile. "Sorry, homme. Did dem a favor, me. Dey tightened security good after."

Scott was obviously not appeased. Something in him still fundamentally outraged to hear of such abuse of a fine flying machine despite his grudging respect for the daring of the stunt. He was far more somber as he continued the tour, showing Remy the medical bay and the research lab, even though Remy was quite familiar with both. Then he led him into a place called the Danger Room.

"Danger Room?" Remy asked, standing in the middle of the vast, echoing space, a dubious brow raised. Scott spoke from his place by the door. He seemed amused.

"A training place for mutant powers. We'll run it for you later."

Remy obediently followed him out of the room and down the hall to the final door. Scott walked up to the glowing eye in the center of the round door and entered a code on a small concealed panel. The glow changed color and he placed his left hand in a precise way over the sphere. A pleasant feminine voice rang out in the hallway. "Greetings, Scott Summers." Remy watched the process with more than idle interest. Being a professional thief, after all.

The locks spun and released and the doors slid aside with slow ponderance. They were thick and heavy. Reinforced like a bank vault, but with a strange, nearly organic coating on the interior. Beyond jutted a catwalk with a console at the end of it centered in the middle of a vast spherical room. It echoed strangely.

"Welcome to Cerebro," Scott said with ease, taking a few steps forward onto the catwalk. Remy hung back, something in him screaming a frantic warning. He slammed his shields tightly closed. "The Professor uses this machine to enhance his telepathic searches for mutants."

Even through his closed shields, Remy could feel an oppressive aura hovering within that space; a piercing, searing, semi-aware energy. While not hostile or aggressive, it wasn't entirely benign either. And nothing could induce him to take a single step inside the sphere.

"T'ink I stay here, mon ami," Remy said harshly, feeling the blood drain from his face. He couldn't help it. He had to step away from that yawning entrance. He didn't realize he hadn't stopped moving until his back slammed into the corridor wall. Scott's expression changed to one of concern.

"Something the matter, LeBeau?"

"Dat's not a place for me," Remy said, shaking his head, eyes wide. "Close de door. Please." Scott walked out and the door slid solidly closed behind him, the female voice heralding his exit with a restrained, "Goodbye, Scott Summers."

Remy breathed a sigh of relief when the locks spun, sealing that strange room away from him.

Scott was crouched in front of him. He thought that odd until he noticed he'd sunk down on his own haunches against the wall, his arms wrapped tightly around his body as he shivered.

"Are you okay?" Scott asked quietly. Remy nodded. Swallowed hard.

"Dat room…" he trailed off and shook his head. "I leave it to de Professor."

"Nobody's ever reacted that way to it before," Scott said with genuine curiosity.

"No?" Remy said, forcing himself to stand, a wary eye on the door. Nerves still singing with anxiety. "Well, guess I'm just special den."

* * * * *

Jean Grey sat up with a jerk, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, sweating despite the air-conditioned coolness of the room. Something fearful had brushed her mind while she slept, entered her dreams and turned them to nightmare. A nightmare filled with breathless pursuit and unnamed menace and frantic helplessness. But upon awakening, the feelings and the vague sense of warning were already fading. She felt automatically beside her for Scott’s reassuring presence, didn’t find him and gave a soft sob as she remembered why.

She was in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, in Manhattan. Miles from Westchester and Scott.

She spent a few minutes trying to calm her racing pulse, then finally slid out of the bed, shivering as the cool air hit her sweat-damp body. Grabbing her wrap from the chair nearby, she hastily belted it on and yanked open the door to walk restlessly out into the main part of the suite. Four bedrooms off a large common room, each with their own lavish bathroom, a balcony off the main room, a dining area and a small kitchen concealed at the rear. The city glittered outside the panoramic windows. Palatial and elegant, it was one of the most expensive suites the hotel had to offer. The Professor slept in the room across from hers. She stood in the center of the room, hesitating. The sense of menace was still strong.

//I am awake as well, Jean,// Charles Xavier said in her mind. //Please come in.//

She moved swiftly toward his room, pushing open the door to smile weakly at him.

He was sitting up in bed, several pillows propped behind him, his bedside light on. It looked hastily arranged, not as if he had been already awake and just heard her stumble out into the main suite. She walked through the room, pulling a chair from the conversation set near the windows over to his bedside with her telekinesis. It soothed her somehow to take that much action.

“Did I wake you?” she asked quietly as she settled in the chair. He was staring into space, gray gaze unfocused, as if he were deep in thought. Or using his powers, but she felt no sense of that.

“No,” he said, frowning slightly. “Something intruded on my sleep.”

“I had a nightmare,” she confessed. The professor frowned deeper as his gaze suddenly focused on her.

“I as well,” he said. And Jean was faintly alarmed. Dreams and night terrors were normal enough, but for both of them to have ones strong enough to wake them at the same time was a little too coincidental.

“Another telepath?” she asked quietly and checked her mental shields. They were sturdy and undamaged. No hostile force had attempted them. The professor shook his head once.

“I do not believe so,” he said. “This was an emotional broadcast, perhaps unconscious. And strangely familiar.”

“Yes,” she said, remembering. “I felt helplessness. Fear. Wariness.”

“Terrible isolation,” he added thoughtfully. “Melancholy, then a powerful sense of exposure. It was a most intriguing event. I wonder if we would have detected it at all if we had not been sleeping.”

“But my shields are still solid, nothing breached them,” she said, checking them again to be certain. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“Nor mine, Jean,” he said. “I have no real explanation for it. Unless it is some permutation of a mutant gift that we have not conceived of. Or one enhanced in some fashion. There was that odd sense of familiarity.”

“I didn’t feel that,” she said, shaking her head. And he frowned at her thoughtfully again.

“No, you didn’t speak with Mr. LeBeau mind-to-mind did you?”

“’Ro’s thief? You think he had something to do with this?” Jean said, surprised.

“Perhaps,” Charles Xavier said, a decidedly intrigued expression on his face. “And perhaps not him alone. I’m even more curious about our Mr. LeBeau now. I hope he decides to take us up on our offer some time soon. I would be most interested to study his particular mental abilities. Most interested indeed.”

* * * * *

Ororo lingered in her attic room after changing out of her shorts and tank top into a pair of flowing silk pants and a matching camisole top. The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet. It hadn’t taken long to brush her hair smooth again and pull it back in a thick tail on her neck. The small rain of dried grass and leaves on the bathroom floor had sobered her as she became lost in memories of how they’d come to be there.

She shivered, remembering the erotic abandon with which they had come together under the tree. Felt the swollen soreness of her body where he had been. The tenderness of her mouth from his kisses. The lingering ache in her breasts. She could still hardly believe what she’d done. She had dragged him off and seduced him; something that was wildly out of character for her. Had let herself be caught up in the need, the passion, the pleasure.

Simply being in the same room with him again later had been enough to send her blood throbbing in her veins, weaken her knees and dry her throat. She’d never felt so out of control in her life. But already she wanted him again. Wanted to feel his hands upon her, hear his voice, look into those demon’s eyes. He had enthralled her until she could think of little else but him.

She stared into her own dark eyes in the mirror, looking for a rationale, attempting to understand why. Found no answers, so she turned away.

Second thoughts, far too late.

Scott had taken Remy on a full tour of the mansion. She could join them, but she found herself strangely reluctant to face Remy in front of Scott again. Instead she wandered restlessly among her plants, checking them absently for dryness and for withered or spotted leaves. But even that familiar activity didn’t soothe her. She paced the length of her attic room and back again.

She finally came to a halt before the open windows, staring out into the warm, calm night.

That he seemed to feel the same draw somehow wasn’t quite the comfort now that it had been downstairs in his presence. She knew nothing of him, really, save that he was wickedly charming, dangerously clever, and powerfully sensual. And that she wanted him with a craving that frightened her. It couldn’t be love, not this quickly. Yet was she just being a cynical fool? Or a cowardly one?

She stared up at the sliver of the newly waxing moon.

“Bright lady, what do I do?” she said softly.

* * * * *

Tour complete for the evening, Scott had led him outside and helped him bring his rental car inside the gates. Remy parked it in front of the garages, a faint pang shooting through him. It was from there that he’d seen the laughing, happy Ororo running across the grounds, white hair flying. For an instant at first he’d believed she was running to him. But the hail of water balloons and pack of yelling teens behind her had soon disabused him of that notion.

Somberly, he retrieved his duster and sunglasses from the car and joined Scott at the garage doors. Since the encounter with Cerebro, both of them had been quiet.

“I’ll show you your room,” Scott said simply, leading him through the extensive garages and back into the mansion. Remy followed him without comment.

The second floor of the central wing housed the teachers’ rooms, between the boys’ and girls’ wings. The Professor’s master suite was in the center, all others around it.

He was amused to note Summers had put him in a room close to the boys’ wing. He walked inside, scanning the quality of the furniture and the art automatically. All top grade and finely made, if not the heirloom quality he’d seen in other parts of the mansion. A guest room for less welcome guests? Or all that was left? At least it had its own bathroom.

Remy turned around slowly in the center of the room, soaking up with a thief’s trained observational skills the location of exits, hiding places, and any defensive weaknesses. The window seats were obscured by curtains. The walls were relatively thin, little soundproofing. Changes would have to be made. If he remained.

"Very nice,” he said noncommittally as he laid his duster over the end of the bed. “De art is staid, but acceptable."

Scott leaned in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a wry smile on his lips. "Glad you approve."

Remy shot him a quirked smile. "Wouldn't go dat far. Where's your room?"

"Down the hall with Jean. Logan’s across from you." For some reason, Scott was consumed with a quick sense of déjà vu that seemed to amuse him. Remy let the impression flow away with a shake of his head and a tightening of his shields, then raised a brow at the other man and gave him a sharp look.

"Ororo's room is in de attic."

"I'd rather not make assumptions." The reply was cool. The warning and implication clear.

Remy smiled tightly in return, undaunted. "Well, dat way, at least one of you would know when I sneak out."

* * * * *

Essex was displeased with her Guild's performance. And Madame Candra was displeased as well. The execution of Tupper had spurred her men to scour the city to the best of their considerable abilities, but she was swiftly reaching the conclusion that the thief had simply left town.

It was Remy LeBeau's finest skill, after all, running away.

He had perfected it just for her. As had his damnable clan.

She walked slowly through her private penthouse, staring out through the tall windows over the glittering Manhattan skyline with narrowed gaze. Somewhere. Not far. She lifted the delicate crystal goblet to her lips, sipped at the rare ruby red vintage within. Her long red satin nightgown rustled about her in the cool air-conditioned silence.

Her Assassins had been unable to catch up with LeBeau on the streets again, but there were still other resources available to her. Essex' men had provided a general area where LeBeau was assumed to live. From there, all it would take was a great deal of money and a few judicious threats come morning to dig up comprehensive information on rental and ownership of dwellings in the area. Then she could personally assist in narrowing the search down to the most likely possibilities. She did have some small insight into how LeBeau's convoluted mind worked, after all.

She smiled in the dark solitude of her lavish apartment. She had been told it was a cold thing, her smile. By Remy LeBeau himself as he knelt in front of her in chains, his splendid body displayed for her like the work of art it was.

Later next day, she would send her people out to eliminate the places that showed normal activity and persons in residence. Not to kill, of course, simply to observe. Then the rest – the empty or the untenanted apartments – she would check out personally.

As he had knelt before her, she had marked him with hot iron, since he was immune to her power. Immune, somehow. But she had smelled his flesh burn, savored the pain in those devil's eyes, drunk down his scream. The delicious memory made her pause, her hand tightening on the goblet in her hand. No, not her hand, but her power. She looked down at the glass with remote interest, focusing. The delicate crystal shattered with a sharp sound, then crackled loudly as it compressed under the force of her will. Smaller, tighter, and finally flowing under the pressure until all that remained was a smooth crystalline sphere in the palm of her hand, the remains of the dark red wine encased inside like a jewel.

She would know his home when she found it. Then she would have him. And if he fell into her hands first – and she could keep Essex from discovering that fact – well then, the good doctor would just have to find himself another thief.

Because she had no intention of giving up Remy LeBeau once she had him under her control again.

* * * * *

She had turned out all the lights in her attic to let the stars and the slender moon light the room instead. It was getting late. More than an hour had passed. The tour would have been long over, unless Scott or Logan had pushed Remy into a Danger Room session. She didn’t think that very likely. Scott was quite adamant about novices to the Room receiving adequate preparation. Even though she had little doubt Remy would be troubled by anything the Danger Room could throw at him. His confidence in his skills didn’t seem misplaced – he'd almost gotten away that first night. If he’d been prepared to face their powers, he probably would have escaped.

And they might never have met.

Pain shot through her at the thought. Despite her previous attack of conscience, she was still powerfully intrigued by him. By the touch of longing in his voice when he first arrived tonight, the regret when he spoke of having no family, the way he looked at her as if she were precious. Then there was his excessive gallantry that should have rubbed her the wrong way, but instead charmed her, as in the way he had diverted attention from her lack of control in front of Scott and Logan. A lack of control that still shocked her.

Would it be that way every time she saw him? That helpless desire?

All she would have to do to find out would be to go back downstairs.

But she was almost afraid to find out. It was far too soon. Just a few hours ago she'd dragged him off into the woods. And now… She leaned against the railing outside the French doors, the metal cool against her back, seated on oversized pillows taken from the couch on the far end of the room. It was the same window he’d climbed through only one night before.

“Why so afraid, chère?” his voice came to her from the darkness behind her. She jumped slightly, heart pounding, and turned her head to see him standing at the top of the stairs. A lean shape in the dim light. She hadn't hear a sound until he spoke.

"Remy," she said, staring at him, drinking in his presence. "I'm not afraid, just tired."

He held a long dark coat over his shoulder. His expression was closed, impossible to read, as if he somehow knew she was being evasive. He came toward her, slinging the coat over the stair railing as he did so, the leather rustling softly in the tense silence. She stared at him, breath leaving her on a shaky sigh, absorbing the sharp beauty of his face, the grace of his motion. He had loosened his hair from its tight tail. One side was tucked behind an ear, but the rest fell around his face, leaving half in heavy shadow. She realized she was holding her breath. He came to a stop a few feet away, watching her.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, eyes gleaming in the starlight. His gaze met hers; brilliant, challenging, fascinating.

She shook her head, then clenched her hands tightly together in an effort to keep from reaching toward him. She had her answer; the desire was still strong.

“I don't understand what I'm feeling,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “I want… so much to be with you. But I don't really know you at all, like you said."

"Den be wit' me, chère," he breathed, sinking to a crouch in front of her. Close enough to touch. Her pulse sped up. "We can learn together."

She stared at him, searching his face, his eyes. He didn’t bother to hide his desire from her, and relief that it hadn’t been misread before surged through her. She really wasn’t alone in this. There was a longing in his expression too, a softer edge to the need. And that more than anything else sapped the pain and strength from her regret.

"This attraction… I thought being with you might make it easier.” It was a dodge. She hadn’t thought at all, just wanted and taken, and after the fact hoped. She took a deep shaking breath, watching the play of starlight on his face, the brief flashes of emotion.

He gave a dark laugh, no real mirth in it. "Non, chère, dis kind of fire just feeds itself. "

“Or burns itself out?”

He shrugged slightly, head cocked, then was silent for a long while, watching her.

“I think we’re just two lonely people who stumbled over each other,” he finally said, a weary sadness filling his expression. She couldn’t help it then. She lifted a hand toward him and he met it with his own, threading his lean fingers through hers. His touch, the warmth of him, stirred the desire in her again, made it strong, yet also steadied her nerves.

It was right when they touched.

"It's too soon to be love," she heard herself say softly. Then wanted to take the words back as soon as she said them. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, apprehension and longing mixed.

“No, dis isn’t love, chère,” he agreed just as softly. “Maybe it’s just de possibility of love.”

“How do you know?” she asked, her voice little more than breath. “I can’t be sure of anything.”

His other hand reached out and passed gently but surely over her breasts, making her gasp as he brushed her peaked nipples. His eyes burned in the darkness.

“For now, dis is just desire,” he said softly, leaning closer to her. “It’s a start, it brought us together, but I want more wit’ you, chère. I want everything.”

She stared at his mouth, those flawless lips. His words sank into her heart, simultaneously warming her and frightening her. Life was never this easy, and this was simply too good to be true, but she didn’t have the will to fight it any longer. She wanted too much for it to be true. For him to be true.

“I want everything too, Remy.”

Trembling, she rose to her feet and led him to her bed. Silently in the dark they stripped each other’s clothes away. He caught her in strong arms, lifting her into the air then laying her down. Mouths fused as they sank onto the cool sheets, bodies pressing close, hearts longing.

Together in the night.

* * * * *

The big man had dragged her down to the kitchen and watched in sneering amusement as she loaded up on food. Anything she could get her hands on – with a strong leaning towards meat and dairy. She polished off an entire block of cheddar cheese in half a dozen bites. Calcium. She craved it. Then a stack of lunchmeat. She didn’t bother with bread.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think the big guy was impressed by the messy way she ate. Hunger didn’t allow for niceties like plates. She stuffed food in as she discovered it. And there was plenty to discover. The kitchen was big and industrial-looking, like a restaurant kitchen, with food stored everywhere.

“Gonna puke it all back up if you keep on like that,” the big man growled once. She stared at him over a half-eaten apple, eyes narrowed. With food inside her, her defiant nature had returned.

“What do you care?”

“I ain’t cleaning it up,” he rumbled, glaring. “An’ I hate the smell.”

She slowed down slightly. But only slightly. Thankful that her stomach didn’t protest that way. It just ached from being stretched again. She felt full, yet still ravenous, and kept eating until finally she couldn’t stuff in another bite.

“Done?” he said, watching her with his strangely dark, flat eyes. Big snakes in the zoo had eyes like that – alien and deadly.

“For now,” she snapped, then crouched and backed away as he came toward her. Big. Sneering. He had claws on the ends of his fingers. His teeth were pointed. And he showed no sign of a limp from where she’d stabbed him in the thigh. Mutant, then. Just like her. She glared at him. He lifted his lips in a silent snarl, glaring right back, gaze running over her in a way that made her terrified and a little sick inside. Hungry, almost. Like she was prey.

Then his hand darted out with startling speed to grab her between the bone spurs on her arm and he proceeded to haul her out of the kitchen.

“Hey, ease up!” she squawked, pulling futilely against that iron grip.

“Shut up, girlie,” he growled, yanking her forward. She stumbled, almost fell, but his formidable grip kept her upright. He dragged her up the stairs and back through the room where she’d seen the cold man. Thankful that he was gone. Dr. Essex was the cold looking man’s name. And she didn’t like him. He frightened her even more than the big man did.

The big man hauled her straight back to her little room with the bars on the windows. Shoved her inside with a last glare, then slammed the door. The lock clicked over audibly. She flipped an obscene gesture at the door, then looked around her little prison room again. Single window, barred. Bed. Nightstand. Lamp. Dresser. Second door.

She brightened slightly and tried the other door. Looked into a tiny bathroom. Sighed heavily. It didn’t even have a window of its own. Just john, sink and narrow shower stall. No way out that way. And there wasn’t even a closet in the room. Nothing to use and nowhere to go except back the way she’d come.

She looked into the mirror on the wall, sneering at her reflection. Pale straggly hair hung lank around her face. She was dirty and bruised and thin. The damning patch on her forehead, just off the ridge over her left eye, had grown into a sharp point, sweeping back like some strange horn. There was a matching one starting on the right side now too. No wonder her mother had called her a demon from hell. She looked like one. She turned away from the mirror, shivering with self-disgust.

The shower tempted her. Locking the bathroom door warily, she stripped off her meager clothing and climbed in. Ran the water hot and scrubbed the blood and filth and scabs away. Most of the patches where the spurs had broken off during the tangle in the alley had already healed over again. But there were signs of new ones getting ready to erupt. The lumpy spots under her skin a dead giveaway.

All along the outside edges of her bones – like upper arm, forearm, back, ribs, thigh, forehead, shoulder – the sharp spurs jutted. So far her hands and feet had been spared. The spurs grew until they broke away, but had to be a certain size before they’d break off clean and with the least amount of blood and pain. About six to eight inches was the right length. They weren’t horns, but acted kind of like them. They grew and shed in similar ways.

She’d read about horns and antlers in books swiped from the library, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to her. Trying to figure out why she’d become a freak. She hadn’t found an answer in any book. And there was no one to ask. No one who would talk to her, now, except the big man and his frightening boss.

But she remembered when she was normal. It hadn’t been that long ago. The pain was sharp and bitter, anger overlying the loneliness and the crushing sense of injustice. Why her? What had she done to deserve this life, this curse? She remembered being able to wear clothes that didn’t tear apart when she moved because of sharp bones protruding through them. Remembered friends from before, and then the horror on their faces when they saw what she was becoming. Remembered the days when people didn’t stare at her in shock or disgust… or fear.

Stuffing her painful thoughts away, she concentrated on the moment. The feel of water on her skin. The sensation of being clean again. She washed her tube top and shorts in the shower too, not wanting to put the filthy things back on again once she was clean. Rung them out and hung them over the shower door to dry. That left her with nothing to wear. With a shrug she dried off, then went out into the room and stripped the top sheet from the bed. A bone spur started the first rip. She fashioned herself a kind of wrap made from strips of the sheet. Not high fashion, but at least it kept her boobs from bouncing everywhere.

Her mind and body were slowing, drowsiness overcoming her now that she was clean and finally had food in her belly. Maybe sleeping would be a good idea. Then, rested, she could look for another way out. Because that Essex guy creeped her out and she didn’t want anything to do with him. Or the big guy, Creed.

She crawled back onto the bed and burrowed under the top blanket just to ward off the air-conditioned chill. Pulled a pillow close and hugged it against her chest. At least her bones tended to grow out and back, kind of like porcupine quills. She could still sleep on her stomach, though it hadn’t ever been her favorite way to sleep. The bed was soft and inviting.

After a short nap and she’d digested her food, she’d find a way out of here she vowed to herself. She wasn’t staying put for these sicko mutant creeps, no way.

Sarah Redmond, mutant runaway, snuggled down into the bed and was soon fast asleep.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau woke to a cool summer morning in the country, his goddess snuggled close in his arms. The quiet outside was faintly disturbing to one grown used to the hustle and bustle of New York City. The morning light wasn’t quite to full brightness through the still-open windows, but was already bright enough to make him squint. So he burrowed his face into the cloud of white hair beside him, not quite ready to let go of the night. He breathed in the soft sandalwood scent of her overlaid by the earthier aromas of sweat and sex and sun-dried grass left over from the romp on the grounds last night.

She shifted slightly with his motion, then woke with a start and a gasp, turning over abruptly to stare into his eyes, her face flushing faintly. Her hands spread flat on his bare chest, fingers tense as her pulse throbbed hard in her neck.

“Good morning, chère,” he said quietly.

“Good morning,” she replied, dark eyes wide. Obviously not used to mornings after. He smiled gently at her, leaned close and kissed her softly. A tender touching of lips that was barely an echo of the passion they had shared last night. But the heat still simmered below the surface. He kept a firm, deliberate hold on his own desire, not wanting to overwhelm her.

“I think a bath would be a good thing for you dis morning, chère,” he said, remembering last night’s reluctant confession that after their second time she was sore. And how the creative way he had found to work around that obstacle had left her gasping and writhing with helpless pleasure. His own pulse sped up just to remember it. Maybe, once more?

Her hands stroked across his chest and up to his shoulders. Tangled in his hair. She smiled at him with clear longing, remembering as well, eyes darkening with desire.

“I think you’re right, unfortunately,” she answered with a regretful sigh.

“I hold you t’ dat ‘unfortunately’ later, chère,” he said, then kissed her nose. She laughed at the gesture, surprised. He grinned down at her, finding her so beautiful, so precious, so tender in the morning light. With pillow creases on her face, tangles in her hair and his own beard-burn staining her neck. Truly a goddess. “No woman should look as good as you first thing in the morning. My heart, it’s ready to burst.” She delighted him by blushing at his extravagance and peeking up at him shyly from under her lashes.

Then she rolled over in his hold, his hands still around her waist as she arched up on the bed, stretching lavishly like a cat. Eyes closed in sensual abandon. Breasts high, waist long, thighs gleaming. Stunningly beautiful.

“Ah, bon Dieu,” he growled, swallowing hard. He was trying to be a gentleman, be considerate and yet she was tempting him so very much. He rolled over on his back, laying his forearm over his tightly closed eyes, teeth gritted as he struggled for control. The fire between them was still searing hot, banking it only possible for a little while, it seemed.

“What’s the matter, Remy?” she asked, a ripple of teasing laughter in her voice. He groaned. A monster. He’d created a monster. Sexy as hell, but still a monster. He turned his back to her in an attempt to maintain control. She needed to be able to walk today, even though he’d be happy to carry her wherever she needed to go. The whimsy almost tempted him to make the offer, but before he could speak she gave a sharp gasp. Then he felt her fingers on his hip and he tensed in sudden anxiety.

“What’s this?” she asked, concern clear. He laid his hand tightly over hers where it rested on the point of his right hip, looking back at her over his shoulder. She looked shocked, her brows lowered with concern. “A burn scar – but it looks shaped…”

He remembered the searing agony of the iron, the dark pleasure and gloating satisfaction of the one who’d done it to him. And he couldn’t help himself – he shuddered, heart suddenly pounding with fear rather than desire.

“Non, it’s a brand,” he said quietly, gaze hooded. Her breath sucked in again.

“Someone branded you?” she asked, horrified.

“Some people pay good money for brands, chère,” he said, forcing a lightness to his tone that he didn’t really feel. “Dey're like tattoos or piercings dat way.”

“Something I notice you don’t have either of,” she said, her tone steadying, gaze sharpening. “And I’ve seen cosmetic brands, Remy. They’re seared, raised areas. This is deep into the muscle and not just the skin. Let me see it.” She tugged at his hand and he let her move it away after meeting her level gaze for a moment. She knew there was more to it than that, he could tell she did. Perceptive and wise. He hadn’t been off in his description of her last night. Better add to it stubborn and persistent, he thought ruefully.

“Happened a long time ago, chère,” he said quietly as she examined his hip. Her fingers traced over his skin lightly, following the rough, three-inch long, crescent-shaped mark, the numbness of the area rendering it ticklish. He snatched at her fingers, then rolled back over to face her, catching her up against him. “It’s not’ing, chère, old business. Dis t’ief’s life has been busy. Made a few enemies, dat’s all. But I learned. I don’t get caught anymore.”

“We caught you,” she said somberly, her eyes glistening.

He forced a smile. “Maybe I saw my stormy goddess in dat room and wanted her t’ catch me, chère,” he said lightly. She reached up and cupped his face, sorrow and compassion in her gaze.

“I’m so sorry someone hurt you, Remy,” she said. He looked into her dark eyes, shuddering again. From a different kind of fear this time. He’d lied to her last night. Maybe it wasn’t love for her yet, but he was dangerously close already. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and so very much more.

He pulled her close, lowering his head to her shoulder and hugging her tightly to him. She held him just as tightly in return, murmuring voiceless words of comfort. The fire smoldering between them held in check by compassion and need. But it took a long while for the panic and the fear to fade.

* * * * *

He had gone down first while she still soaked in the bathtub. Easing the aches and the soreness caused by unaccustomed activities. She snorted wryly at her own circumspect thoughts. A night of reckless abandon and sexual fervor, more accurately. She didn't clearly remember how long it had been since she'd last made love. Didn't even really remember the man, to her mild shame.

The morning's bath had been a rare indulgence. As had been the time spent in meditation as she let her skin air dry. But these new feelings, this new connection consumed her so completely, it seemed a necessity. A way to try to center herself again.

Thus it also took her much longer than usual to finish her morning preparations. To brush out her long, damp hair, still tangled from the night. To dress in her usual close-fitting jeans and a bright, cheerful top. To add a necklace of sleek amber beads around her throat and a touch of lipstick to her mouth. For confidence. She used every moment as a way to compose herself. To control herself. To remind herself who and what she was; a teacher, a mutant warrior, and then a woman. Something in her was still alarmed over the way a man she barely knew could stir her so thoroughly with just a simple touch or a look, and yet show her how wary and somehow fragile he could be, as when she found his scar. It just showed her how vulnerable they both were. And how much they both still had to learn.

When she entered the dining hall, she immediately spotted Remy at the buffet table. There was a group of giggling, blushing girls clustered around him. He was smiling with gentle amusement and nodding with polite remoteness to them all, yet still striking most of them dumb in blatant worship. He was too handsome for his own good.

She stared at him again and realized how foolish she had been to think she could control her reactions to him with a little meditation. He was pure temptation. He had caught his auburn hair back carelessly in a loose tail on his neck, the sleek, shining mass held in place with what she only now recognized was one of her own clips – a carved wooden oval with a plain gold pin stuck through it. She'd never be able to wear it again without thinking of him.

He wore the same jeans that he'd worn last night, but he'd borrowed one of her workout shirts in lieu of his own silk shirt. It was a simple blue tee shirt that was loose on her, but the thin cotton hugged his chest and shoulders like it was painted on. It showed every muscle and line of his lean body and displayed his tanned arms to advantage. While the jeans hugged slender hips and corded thighs. He was stronger than he appeared, as she well knew. Fit and hard.

She stood frozen in the doorway, breath coming short. He was beautiful, in a way that men seldom could be without seeming effeminate. His jaw was strong enough, his face just hard enough to avoid that, yet still retain true beauty. And she was gawking at him just as badly as the girls.

Remy looked up at that moment, expression grave, his red-on-black eyes finding her immediately. She gasped at the blatant need, the searing heat in his gaze. Heat swiftly banked when one of the younger girls spoke to him. He smiled down at the teen, making the poor girl gape stupidly at him, her jaw practically on the floor. Ororo felt a quick flare of envy. She knew the power of that smile, longed to see it directed at her again.

"Why did you two even bother to come down?" Logan growled beside her. She didn't turn to look at him, but crossed her arms defensively over her chest.

"There are classes today, Logan," she said, gathering her tattered dignity. Trying to hide her arousal and knowing it was futile around Logan since he could smell it.

"Fuck that," he said harshly. "It's summer."

"Language. And are you willing to take over my classes then?"

"Classes are cancelled for the rest of the week," Scott said from behind them. Logan just snorted in amusement. She turned to look at Scott in surprise.

"Why?"

"LeBeau mentioned something last night that sounded familiar. He said a man named Essex hired him to break into our files. This morning, I finally remembered where I'd heard the name before. There's a Dr. Essex due to speak at the genetics symposium that Jean and the Professor are attending today."

"Imagine that," Logan snarled, coming alert. He had his arms crossed over his chest too, a scowl on his face.

"A geneticist hired him?" Ororo said, astonished.

"Apparently."

"Why? And how would this man even know about us?"

"That's what we need to find out," Scott said grimly, staring across the room at Remy LeBeau.

* * * * *

Sarah Redmond woke with a sharp jerk, panicked, when a bar of sunlight flashed into her eyes through the blinds that covered the window. It was already full daylight outside. She'd slept longer than she wanted. Leaping off the bed, she scrambled to the bathroom. Yanked off the strips of sheet she'd tied around herself and hastily pulled on her still-damp shorts and tube top. Found her tattered shoes and stuffed her feet into them. Then crept to the door, listening carefully.

It was silent outside. No sounds that might indicate the presence of either the big man, Creed, or the cold Dr. Essex. She frowned, biting her lip. No one would come to save her. No one out there in the world cared if she lived or died – some would probably even cheer if she did. One less mutie freak. But she wasn't ready to die. Not for someone else's plans. Nothing Essex had said last night had given her any assurance that she'd survive whatever they had in mind for her. So it was all up to her. She had to escape.

Creed had been careful to lock her in after feeding her. Her stomach growled at the memory of food. She ignored it and reached around her side, groping for a likely spike of bone. Tested a few. Found one that was nearly ready to go. She gritted her teeth and snapped it off, wincing at the brief pain.

The bone was flat and faintly knife-shaped. She grabbed both ends and flexed it experimentally between her hands. Some bend, but not too much. As they dried, they got harder, but she didn't have time to wait for it to set up. She eyed the door. It was dead bolted. She had absolutely no idea how to jimmy it. She tried to fit the slender end of her bone knife into the jamb, but it was too wide. The wood splintered a bit as she dug around and after a little too much prying, the end of the bone snapped off. No good. Sighing deeply in frustration, she glanced around the door, gaze falling on the hinges.

And something she'd heard once came back to her. With blunted bone knife braced against the head of the pin that held the bottom hinge in place, she gave it an experimental smack. The pin shifted up with surprising ease. And not too much noise. Grinning with a kind of grim hope, she pried the pin out after only a few more soft blows. Then she reached up to tackle the top one, glad that the door only had two hinges.

The last pin fell out and the door sagged toward her. She caught it, twisting it out of the frame enough for her to pass through. She unlocked the deadbolt, went back inside the room and slipped one pin back into place. Then stepped back outside and locked the door behind her, grinning in satisfaction. Too used to sneaking out of her mother's apartment at all hours to not leave as little evidence as possible, but too worried about speed to be thorough.

She looked up and down the hallway carefully. To the right was the upper room where she'd overheard the men the night before and beyond it one set of stairs that for certain lead to the back of the building and the kitchen. But a kitchen would be in use in the morning, wouldn't it? So she headed the other way, moving quietly, the bone knife still clutched in her hand. The tip was gone, but the edge was still sharp.

The house was eerily silent. As if there was no one there except her. But she already knew that the big man Creed could move with uncanny silence. She crept carefully down the hall, passing quite a few doors until she came to another open area with chairs. A kind of lounge. Windows showed her greenery and hedges just like the view from her former prison. Apparently, the hedge surrounded the house. There was another stairwell too, this one big and elegant.

She crouched in the room, listening intently. Then she started for the stairs, moving softly. She froze halfway down, thinking she’d heard what sounded like an elevator, when she suddenly heard a crash and a roar of outrage from behind her.

"Where the hell did ya go, ya ugly little shit?"

Creed.

She scrambled down the stairs, terrified. They were long, wrapping around in a wide sweep to the ground floor. She sprinted across the open hallway toward a large, ornate doorway, hearing the thundering of Creed along the hallway upstairs, alarmed by his animal-like growls.

The door resisted her first attempt to open it. Locked with at least three bolts. She scrambled wildly to unlock it, hearing Creed on the stairs now. Couldn’t figure it out in time, so she abandoned the door to sprint down the hall toward the back of the house. Looking for some other way out. A window, another door – anything.

In front of her, a man, dressed in a long white coat and pushing a cart, came out of what looked like an elevator. He called out in surprise, eyes wide with shock when he spotted her. She skidded across the floor in her old running shoes, the soles slick with wear, and crashed into the cart. Trays and scraps of food and bowls flew everywhere. Creed was yelling at the man to stop her even as she dove around him into the temporary safety of the elevator car just as the doors slid closed behind her.

She braced herself against the metal wall of the car, panting frantically as she listened to Creed’s frustrated roars from outside. A shudder rocked the car as he slammed into the closed doors. She slapped the lowest button on the board – two levels down. Anything to keep that door from opening again.

The car slid smoothly into motion. Stopped with a completely ordinary ping on the designated level where the doors opened before her. She stepped out, then clamped her hands over the doors as they started to close, forcing them open again. If it went back up, that would let Creed follow her. She examined the control panel frantically as the doors kept trying to close against her bracing hand. Found the ‘emergency stop’ switch and flipped it. An annoying buzz rose from the elevator car, but it didn’t go anywhere.

She turned to find herself in a fairly long hallway, three doors all on the same side of the wall spaced reasonably far apart. She yanked open the first door she came to. It looked like something out of a hospital. Behind a separating wall of glass, there loomed dozens of fancy medical machines, a cluster of big lights and a complex-looking operating table. It was so clean it gleamed. She scanned the room for signs of another exit, didn’t see one, so closed the door and moved on to the next one.

Inside the second room were metal cages filled with animals; monkeys, dogs, rats. It looked like a lab of some kind, though she only realized that from vague impressions of things she’d seen on TV. But on the far side of this room loomed a door with a familiar green exit sign over it. She raced across and opened the door. Heart thundered in panic as she heard the pounding of feet on the stairs beyond. She spun away and ran back through the lab. She was barely through the hallway door when the stairwell door burst open behind her. Creed yelled an obscenity at her heels.

She dodged away toward the buzzing elevator again. Lunged inside, bone spikes scraping loudly against metal as she slammed against the wall while she simultaneously slapped at the highest button. Then screamed as she realized she hadn’t shut off the emergency stop. Scrambled frantically for it. Flicked it off. Too late. Huge hands slapped over the edges of the doors to keep them open. She looked up into a nearly inhuman face; sharp teeth, feral eyes, bristling hair. She slashed at him wildly with the bone knife still in her hand. Saw it slice deep across his arm. Saw blood run. Then he backhanded her across the face.

The strength of the blow sent her flying across the car; spikes clattering, head ringing, vision tunneling. She ended up on her side, dazed, scrambling weakly at the floor. Her bone knife lost somewhere.

"Got guts, girlie. No brains, but guts." His low voice came to her even through the dull ringing in her ears, the angry buzzing of the elevator. “That's the second time ya cut me.”

She lifted herself weakly on her arms, head lolling down toward her chest. Blood dripped from her chin onto the white tile floor of the elevator. Made small splatters that fascinated her. The coppery taste bright in her mouth. Pain throbbed in her head. Her shoes slipped on the floor as she tried to crawl away. To escape. She had to escape.

He walked slowly toward her. She could see his boots. Wanted to spit on them.

"At least ya heal decent. Not like me, but better than most frails."

He laughed then, the sound chill and mocking. She made it to her hands and knees and started crawling. Anywhere. Away. Another blow sent her tumbling out the opened doors to sprawl against the wall in the hallway. Blackness threatened around bright flashes of pain. She hurt everywhere. Blood trickled warm down her face.

"Yeah, I could almost like ya, girlie. If only ya weren't so damn ugly."

She blinked painfully up at him, seeing only his heavy blond mane of hair haloed by the cold fluorescent lights, his expression hidden from her by shadow. He was laughing again, low and menacing. She spat at him. Hating him. He snarled and hit her again. And this time, the blackness took her.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau looked up suddenly from the chattering of the young girl beside him straight into his stormy goddess' dark eyes. She had paused in the dining hall doorway, her attention fixed on him. When their eyes met, he saw the flush of desire come over her face, the way her lips parted in response. Fought his own reaction with grim determination. Too public, this, and too many children near. He deliberately looked back down at the girl beside him, smiling gently at her enthusiastic recap of last night's water war. It was a popular topic this morning.

"Dat sounds like fun, petite," he said to the girl when she paused for breath.

Her name was Mandy. She was fourteen. And her mutant ability was to generate high intensity sound waves, kind of like a dolphin, as she had explained eagerly and to his mild shock. She also had braces on her teeth, dishwater blonde hair and a slight case of acne; she was sweet and young and obviously enamored with him.

Enamored with his looks, at least. And he should be used to that, he thought with biting self-mockery. Once he’d learned how to disguise his eyes, his pretty face had gotten him into plenty of trouble in its time. But underneath the smooth adult exterior still lurked a wary, lonely, strange-eyed boy.

A boy who’d lived wild on the streets of New Orleans from the age of seven or so. Streets where a thick Cajun accent was considered 'cute' to the tourists. And cute meant money given willingly – or unwillingly. Streets where a little boy in sunglasses wasn't harassed too badly as long as he kept moving, because staying still meant exposure or capture. Exposure to people who called you both devil and Loa and laid necklaces of bone at your feet. Capture by those who did frightening things that made you scream in the night. Streets where your only friends were those too hopeless or too drunk or too blind to care about your eyes.

Until that one fateful day when his poppa had taken a chance on him… He shook himself mentally, unsettled by the dark turn of his thoughts. Those memories had been buried for years. Why should the presence of one happy girl draw them out to spoil his mood? Determinedly, he buried them again and forced a smile.

The young girl beside him beamed obliviously back at him before giggling and rambling on further about water balloon ambushes and the boy she liked and how she'd doused him good last night. Amazingly normal talk – for a mutant child. It was sobering to see just how much Xavier and his loyal followers had already accomplished here.

Remy kept a surreptitious watch on the doorway while he listened to Mandy's chatter. He definitely noticed when Ororo was joined there by Logan. She folded her arms over her chest, a cool look on her face now in response to something the other man had said. Logan was annoying her, apparently. He hid a pensive frown. He and Logan would have to have words. Soon. Reach an understanding, or there would be blood spilled. Then the two others were joined by Scott Summers. And after a few moments of discussion all three of them turned their attention toward him.

"I’m sorry, petite," he said to the girl beside him. "Duty calls." Mandy looked up, spotted the other teachers at the door and noticed they were staring their way. She snatched up her breakfast plate with a squeak before she scrambled off to a table. The group of lingerers around him also scattered. Not in fear, but in a kind of self-consciously guilty adolescent panic over the adult perception of anything that fell outside normal routine.

He picked up his refreshed cup of coffee and walked back to the table that several students had earlier pointed out to him as the teacher's. It sat at the head of what had once been a vast formal dining room. Now it was a glorified cafeteria. Tall windows let the bright morning sunshine inside and he’d already wished that he'd thought to bring down his sunglasses. The floor was polished wood, the walls covered with a cream-colored silk, the wainscoting expertly carved. But the floor was battered from the tread of many feet and the sliding of chairs, the silk stained in spots, the walls dented slightly. Xavier had converted his elegant ancestral home ruthlessly. And seemed not to begrudge the wear it received. Remy slid back into the seat he had chosen when he ate his light breakfast earlier and casually sipped coffee as he watched the other three adults finally enter the room.

Ororo headed straight for him, exchanging brief words with children who called to her as she passed; a calm smile on her face, her gaze never straying far from him. Focused and pleased. Yet still aware enough to pause a moment to speak with one eager boy, her smile deepening as her hand briefly touched the boy’s shoulder. It showed just how much she cared for these children, how tender she was. The boy turned away laughing. His goddess continued toward him.

Remy looked up into her eyes again, smiling in welcome before he rose to his feet and took her hand in his. Lifted it to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss on the back of it. A tremor shot through her. "Morning, chère," he said with deliberate ease. "Feel better now?" She pulled her hand slowly, reluctantly away, fingers trailing across his hand.

"Yes, I do," she said huskily. “Thank you.” He could see the heat in her eyes, the quick pulse in her throat and he wished suddenly that he could just take her away for a week or three and explore their intense attraction undisturbed. With no responsibilities or obligations save to each other and the fire between them.

The general level of sound jumped in the room, a wave of eager noise rising suddenly from the young people around them. They both ignored it for a moment, lost in each other’s eyes. Rich velvet brown and red-on-black. Absorbed. Intent. But it was Ororo who finally tore her gaze reluctantly away, turning to glance around the room with face flushed. Remy looked away as well, trying to cool his own unruly desire.

Summers was walking through the room, talking quietly to each table of kids. They were reacting in various enthusiastic ways; leaping to their feet, pumping fists in the air, high-fiving each other, chattering eagerly. Summers had a patiently amused look on his face.

Over at the buffet, Logan was speaking intently to three girls who had clustered around him, trapped while pouring himself a cup of coffee. One a medium-height girl with sleek auburn hair that was oddly streaked with white in the front and who, for some reason, wore long opera gloves covering her hands and arms; another a tall, slender girl with vaguely curly brown hair and wide, deer-like eyes; and the last an Asian girl with short bobbed dark hair, wearing a glaringly yellow tee shirt. The girl in gloves was pleading with the Wolverine, obviously asking for some kind of favor. Logan shook his head sharply, but looked down at the girl with clear fondness, his expression as soft as Remy had seen it yet.

“Scott cancelled classes for the week,” Ororo explained. Remy raised a brow. “The name you gave him last night – it might be a geneticist that Jean and the Professor are going to see at the symposium they’re attending this week.”

“Dat worries him,” Remy said. She nodded, watching Summers as he finished moving through the room. Behind him most of the kids had raced out, whooping and yelling. A few remained behind on clean-up duty, hastily gathering up stacks of trays and tubs of dishes so that they could join the fun sooner.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh and a slight frown, then she glanced at the table beside them. “You’ve eaten, I see. I’d better go get my breakfast before they throw everything out.” He watched her move across the room, her easy grace and beauty, as always, entrancing him.

Summers came over to him, his job of dispersing students apparently done.

“Good morning, LeBeau,” Summers said, taking a seat at the end of the table.

“You have questions for me today?” Remy asked absently, attention still split on his goddess for a moment longer, then he took his seat again, looking thoughtfully at Summers. The man had collected a cup of coffee at some point during his circuit of the room and now took a drink as he watched Remy from behind his ever-present red shades.

“How certain is your information on Essex?” Summers asked coolly.

“Just the name for sure,” Remy replied shortly. “Stormy tells me you think he might be this geneticist your lady doctor is meeting this week.”

“Yes, Dr. Nathaniel Essex. And he’s actually rather famous. He won the Nobel Prize for medicine last year.”

Remy raised his brows in surprised acknowledgement, but kept the rest of his face impassive. “Thought de name sounded familiar.”

Scott nodded grimly. “You said he sent men after you…”

“You want proof,” Remy said, with a tight grin, staring into those red glasses. Catching the barest glimpse of the steady eyes behind them. Summers was no fool.

“It would probably be a good idea to have some kind of evidence before we start harassing a respected scientist,” Summers said easily.

Remy lowered his shields slightly, catching the sincerity of Summers’ fledgling trust in him, but also his need for certainty. The other man wasn’t really doubting him, just being thorough. Building a case, so to speak. He closed his shields again, and leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. Logan strode up, the three girls still in tow.

“Come on, Logan,” the girl in gloves was saying, a hint of the South in her husky voice. “Just up and down the driveway again… Please? You’ll be right there...”

“What’s up?” Summers asked just as Logan growled a surly negative over his shoulder. Apparently one of many that seemed to have had little effect on the gloves-wearing girl. She fixed rather pretty wide brown eyes on Logan, batted her lashes and clasped her hands together pleadingly. The Asian girl next to her snorted in amusement over her display, stifling it behind her hand, dark eyes dancing. He leaned back in his chair to watch, and didn't even have to lower his shields to sense Logan’s wary discomfort. He was heartily amused by it all.

“They want more lessons on my bike. Today,” Logan said shooting the still silently pleading girl an annoyed – if faintly indulgent – look as he dropped into a seat at the table. She stuck her lip out in a frustrated pout, trading desperate glances with her two partners in crime. They all three stuck their heads together, whispering madly, the other two giving the first girl urging gestures.

“Your bike, huh?” Summers gave a short laugh. He and Logan exchanged pointed stares, the tension suddenly high between them. Remy hid his sharp attention behind a wide grin.

“Motorcycle?” Remy asked with a throaty chuckle, wondering about the sudden antagonism between the other two. “You ride too, mes amis?”

Both Summers and Logan turned to look at him, shrugged. Remy laughed in easy delight, thinking quickly.

“Left my bike in de city,” he said with a show of dismay. Then he looked at the suddenly attentive girls and gave them a slow, deliberate smile. The good one. It wasn't even fair. He had them. All three of them blinked back at him in a kind of stunned, astonished awe; the curly-haired girl even let her mouth fall open with a soft gasp. He’d have to be careful around here, he thought wryly as he toned down the wattage on his smile. Too many little-girl hearts that could be inadvertently broken. “I’ll bring it back here soon. Then I can give you lessons if you like, petites.”

Logan made a sharp sound of disgust, but he ignored him as he kept most of his attention on the three girls. Summers stayed quiet, but he could see the frown on his face from the corner of his eye. Worried about their girls now? Or him?

The first girl to recover was the short Asian one. There was a flash of calculation deep in her eyes as she shook off her awed reaction to his smile, followed by a kind of knowing wariness –something far too mature for her age. Then it disappeared behind a gleam of mischief and a cheeky grin. He kept his smile in place, watching her more closely. She was a kindred spirit, maybe. A child of the streets, definitely. And pure trouble, it was clear. “Whoa, cool, really?” she said eagerly, without a single look over at the scowling Summers.

“Hey, you’re Remy LeBeau, aren’t you?” she went on, her words spilling out with impressive speed around a wad of bubble gum. “Ms. Monroe told us last night. Are you gonna stay? Your eyes are rad. Hey, I heard you’ve got powers like me – and no matter what John says, I think blowing up stuff is way cooler than playing with fire – even if my pafs are kinda small still. I’m Jubilee, by the way. Well, Yung-Mei Jubilation Lee, but everyone just calls me Jubilee. And the spaz here with her chin on the floor is Kitty Pryde.” She elbowed the thin girl hard and hissed in a loud aside, “Jeez, Pryde, get a grip.” The other girl blinked and shut her jaw with a snap. Another conquest, he thought ruefully, lips twisting faintly. ”And over there in the gloves – that’s Rogue. And could… Hey!”

“Jubilee the motor-mouth,” the tall girl named Kitty said darkly after interrupting Jubilee with a sharp elbow to the ribs. "Duct tape extra." The girl called Rogue laughed and flushed faintly, looking down and letting the white-striped hair fall partially over her face. A little shy, apparently.

The casual mention of powers still gave him a twinge of unease. He’d have to get used to it. This place was a school for mutants, after all, and here they didn’t have to hide what they were. These girls were only seventeen at the oldest, maybe even as young as fifteen. And despite being mutants, they seemed nearly as innocent and eager as any other sheltered teen in the country. He sighed inside. Knowing that he’d never been that innocent. Never had a chance to be, with his demon eyes marking him as different from the moment of his birth.

“I am honored to make your acquaintances, mademoiselles,” he said with deliberate formality, nodding slightly and letting his eyes twinkle briefly at each of them in turn. “And I am indeed Remy LeBeau, at your service.” Kitty rolled her eyes up in her head in a mock swoon, Rogue flushed deeper, but Jubilee just grinned back at him, an answering gleam in her dark eyes. Definitely trouble that one, he thought wryly, charmed despite himself.

“No riding lessons right now,” Summers interrupted sternly. “Why don’t you girls find something else to do for the day? Aren’t you on stable duty anyway, Kitty?” The tall girl blinked in surprise. She’d obviously forgotten. His goddess walked up behind them, a tray of food in her hands.

“And I believe you still owe me an essay on the Civil War, Miss Lee,” she said just as sternly, but with a smile teasing at her lips. The girl rolled her eyes dramatically and sagged where she stood.

“But it’s summer!” Jubilee protested. Ororo and Summers laughed and exchanged pointed looks.

Remy rose to his feet and gallantly pulled out a chair for his goddess. She shot him a surprised look, and for a moment he thought she was going to protest his courtesy, but the quiet regard in his gaze must have convinced her otherwise. He let his hand brush briefly against her shoulder as she sat down and he felt the answering tremor run through her. So precious. So beautiful. And all of this, so fragile. But worth protecting. The feeling was sudden and overwhelming. He checked his shields carefully – not truly surprised to find them solid and no outside influence at work. He tried not to think about how much that must mean he already cared about her, and this place… and how dangerous that could be for them all.

Remy let his carefully neutral gaze pass over the table of adults and the three girls as he stood beside his goddess's chair, arms crossed casually over his chest. Mind still churning. He let his gaze lock on Jubilee.

“Tell you what, petite,” he said to the Asian girl, a slow grin crossing his face. “You finish dat essay for Ms Monroe sometime today while I go fetch my bike. She gives you a good grade on it, you get de first lesson.”

“Hey!” Kitty and Rogue said in unison, indignant at being excluded from the offer. Jubilee smiled wide and cracked her gum smugly. “Deal!” she said.

Remy grinned with satisfaction at the frowning Summers and the glowering Logan. His goddess just watched with a kind of amused patience overlying the simmering awareness of him. She shook her head, a gently knowing twist to her smile.

“Bribery,” she said as she saluted him wryly with her teacup. “I never would have thought of that, Remy, thanks.”

“Non?” he said with exaggerated astonishment. “It always worked on me in school…”

“I imagine it did,” his goddess said as she shook her head again and laughed softly. Summers looked mildly amused now as well. Only Logan still scowled.

“I’ll go now, and get my bike,” he said, with a brief inclination of his head toward Summers and a raised-brow look for the man. Wordless understanding passed. He’d come back with more information, too.

“See you dis afternoon, chère,” he said to his stormy goddess. She looked faintly bereft, shocked that he was leaving so abruptly. He gave her a wicked smile and a look rife with promise. Heat stained her cheeks as they locked gazes for a long moment until she finally mumbled a soft farewell. Remy grinned shamelessly back, then with a casual wave for the rest of them, he turned and strode out of the room, heading for her attic and his things.

There were still those loose ends for him to take care of in town, if he was planning on staying around. And he was, despite the flare of old panic it gave him. But some time in the city – away from her direct impact – could teach him much. About just how far he had already fallen toward love.

* * * * *

Logan had stalked off after Remy left, a dark look on his face as he herded the trio of girls out of the dining hall, muttering something about keeping order in the halls. Only she and Scott were left. Even the breakfast clean-up crew had disappeared – though they could be heard clattering and banging in the kitchen beyond. Teachers who dawdled the morning away had to take their own trays in, apparently. But it had been well worth it, she thought with a fond smile. Until he left so suddenly. The smile faded. Ororo finally looked up from her cup of yogurt at Scott. Her friend was watching her closely, his expression somber.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. She felt a mild flicker of annoyance, even though she knew it was only a genuine concern for her happiness that motivated the question. The price of being alone so long, perhaps. Friends worried when you finally took a chance.

“Yes.” She smiled tightly as her heart raced, then she admitted, “As long as he does come back.”

“I think he will,” Scott said. “And so do you.”

She let out a shaky breath, picked up her tea and took a calming sip. “Yes. For now.” Admitting her deepest fear to Scott as she would to no other so casually. They had fought together for years, just the two of them, protecting each other's backs. She could trust him to keep her secrets. Then she shot him a sharp look. “What was it you asked him to do?”

Scott shook his head a little, watching her closely through his glasses.

“Not much gets by you, does it?”

“Nope, so spill.”

“Not much gets by him either, despite that ‘see how sexy I am’ act of his,” Scott said thoughtfully. She gave an involuntary snort of laughter. She'd seen the smile he'd turned on the girls too. While that wasn’t exactly how she’d choose to describe Remy’s actions, it did fit. At least that once. And she'd already deduced it meant he was up to something. Just like the accent he played up at times. He was obviously used to concealing who and what he was. As a mutant, she couldn’t blame him. But as a woman, it worried her.

“So…?” she prompted. Scott slid over one chair closer to her and propped his arms on the table and the back of the chair in order to face her. His expression grave. She watched him consider his words as she sipped at her tea.

“I asked him to confirm his information about Essex,” Scott said. ”I’d rather not – even privately – accuse a Nobel Laureate of conspiracy without hard evidence.”

“Scientists, even respected ones, have been known to let their desire for knowledge or fame override their ethics. He could be desperate for data on mutation and thought stealing it the only way to obtain it.”

“Maybe,” Scott said grimly. “But the Professor has been looking forward to this conference in part so that he can meet Nathaniel Essex. And I know Jean has too. Wouldn’t they have heard some kind of rumors if Essex used questionable methods in his research?”

She shrugged. "Well, we can always wait for the Professor to meet him and give us his personal assessment of the man,” she said, then frowned thoughtfully.

Scott looked down at the floor for a moment, before looking back up at her, his expression faintly worried. It sent a shaft of concern through her too.

“I only hope that won’t be too late.”

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau slipped his sunglasses on as protection against the bright morning light spilling into Ororo’s attic room before he grabbed up his long leather duster. It wouldn’t do to leave all his equipment behind. Not when he was going to work again. He paused at the foot of her bed, fingering the neatly laid out silk shirt that lay there. His shirt. The one he’d worn last night. The one she’d slid so eagerly from his shoulders. And he wondered painfully, for a moment, if she even expected him to return.

He left the shirt where it lay.

As he descended the main stairs, he could see Logan standing by the door, arms folded over his chest in what Remy was swiftly coming to realize was a habitual pose. Sneering, disdainful, distant. Did the man even realize how futile it was to resist these people? Their welcome, their honest concern and their determined promotion of a mutant’s simple right to life, liberty and happiness was insidious.

“So, get what you wanted, Cajun?” the other man asked, gaze sharp.

Remy bristled inside at the implied insult to his goddess. But on the outside he stayed cool and calm as he closed the distance between them.

“Not just yet, mon ami,” he said, letting a knowing smile play around his lips. He stepped past the other man to the door and opened it. Predictably, Logan growled; then a hand shot out to catch his arm and spin him around. But Remy was prepared. He turned in a flash and caught Logan’s wrist in a hard grasp instead. Lowered his sunglasses with his free hand to look directly into the other man's eyes.

Surprise first, swiftly followed by a narrow, angry glare. The Wolverine wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of intimidation tactics.

“Don’ fuck wit’ me,” Remy said, his voice low and hard as he returned Logan’s glare eye to eye. “An’ don’t insult my Stormy like dat again or I make you pay.” And before Logan could twist his arm away, he released it with a contemptuous push. Then he turned and strode out the door.

He had a job to do. Then he’d be back. And damn Logan if he didn’t like it.

* * * * *

Jean Grey was deeply engrossed in the first lecture panel of the morning, glasses on her nose, gold pen in her hand making quick notes on a pad in her own nearly-incomprehensible shorthand, when a young man in the hotel livery came up beside her. She sat in the last row of tables in a moderately-sized meeting room at the Ritz-Carlton. The room was full.

“Dr. Grey?” the bellhop asked politely, his voice hushed. She lifted her head, glancing up at the young man curiously. She hadn’t even heard the room’s door open she’d been so intent on the information regarding recent human population mutation-rate studies. The data was alarming – taken in a certain light – and could be used to fan anti-mutant hysteria if the media saw fit to report on it. The Professor had felt it imperative that at least one of them attend this report panel and she hated to miss any of it.

“Yes?”

“There’s an urgent phone call for you. In the lobby on the white courtesy phone. Just identify yourself to the operator and they will connect you.”

“Thank you,” she said, biting her lip in consternation. She didn’t want to leave, but the man beside her had already shot her a quelling look. The panel had twenty minutes still to go, but the only one who could be calling would be Scott. And Scott wouldn’t interrupt for frivolous reasons.

She slid out of her seat, gathering her things as silently as possible and followed the waiting bellhop out of the room. He closed the door behind her, and bowed formally to her. She just nodded absently and made her way to the lobby to quickly find a courtesy phone.

“This is Dr. Jean Grey,” she identified herself into the receiver.

“One moment, please,” the operator said hollowly. There was a flurry of clicking, then Scott’s voice.

“Jean?” he called, his voice sounding strained.

“Yes, Scott. What happened?” she asked, still mildly annoyed to be pulled out of the panel. It had better not be a roughhousing injury to one of the kids or she was going to deliver a stiff lecture on caution and overly-competitive natures and keeping one’s mutant power out of basketball games when she got back.

“Jean, our visitor says he was hired by Dr. Essex,” Scott said tightly. Her eyes widened in shock, all thoughts of her interrupted panel gone, and she instinctively cupped the phone receiver in her hand. Then she more practically did a quick mental scan of nearby minds to make certain no one was trying to listen in. All was clear in her immediate area, save for the random lascivious thought about her trim forest green sweater set. She ignored it as the background noise it was.

“Is he certain?” she said skeptically, voice low. “Dr. Nathaniel Essex is one of the most respected human genetics researchers in the world, Scott. He’s done groundbreaking work on cancer therapies as well as several meta-viruses. And his work was instrumental in discovering the meningitis therapy. ”

"He is reputable then," Scott said his tone resigned. "That makes this harder." She wanted to reach through the phone and shake him. Did he have any idea who he was accusing?

"Are you sure about this, Scott?" she asked.

“Reasonably,” he said, and something in the very flatness of his tone alerted her. But he was much too far away for her to mind-reach. He didn't sound reasonably sure. And for Scott, that was critical.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Our visitor came back last night. He stayed in the attic – and for breakfast,” he said pausing significantly. She didn’t need to be a telepath to pick up that broad hint. She wondered briefly how the intensely private Ororo was handling this new development. Then remembered Remy LeBeau’s intense sexual focus on her friend and had to smile. She hoped ‘Ro had at least gotten to enjoy herself before it all hit the fan.

"How's Ororo?" she asked, the smile still twitching at her lips. Despite LeBeau's strange accusation about one of her most respected medical peers, he was still a handsome man who had been making eyes at her friend. She wanted details.

"She's fine." She shook her head in silent disgust at Scott's bland reply.

"Is he still there?"

"No, I asked him to go out and get confirmation today. So he left a little while ago."

"How'd 'Ro take that?"

"You know her. She's fine." Which meant Ororo was sweating it and trying to hide it. Which also meant she cared about this thief more than she wanted to admit. Already. And that worried Jean. How much did they really know about him anyway? Then Scott continued, his tone serious, and shattered her thoughts.

"Jean, it's genetic data. Who out there in the world could understand it better than a cutting edge geneticist? But even if we can't be certain it's actually the Dr. Essex himself who wants the data, somebody out there does. And was willing to hire a pro to get it." He paused and she knew with a quick sinking in her stomach exactly what he was going to say next.

"I think both you and the Professor should come home,” her fiancée and team leader said, his voice hard. “You’re vulnerable there.”

She glanced around the lobby first, scanning quickly to make certain no one was paying her any attention. "Scott, they don't need to be able to understand the full data," she said, her voice low as a precaution. "They just need to identify the activated x-factor gene. Then someone can reveal all of us – and the children – as mutants."

He sighed into the phone. "I thought of that too. And that really scares me."

"Why?"

"Then we have a new enemy out there. Someone who wants to hurt us, and the kids. Someone we know nothing about."

"What about Mystique?" she asked after a moment of mutual silence.

"She's busy being Senator Kelly."

"Well, maybe it was the government who really hired him, Scott, and is pinning the blame on Dr. Essex for some reason," she said, thinking furiously. "Or a rival biotech firm. They're all desperate for scraps of his research since he only works independently."

"Now you're really reaching, Jean. Does it bother you that much that it might be Essex?" he asked with a patient sigh. "You haven't even met him."

"The man's done so very much for medical science. He's an incredible researcher. His work is decades beyond anyone else's. There's no telling what he'll discover next," she said eagerly. "He could even cure cancer in the next few years. That's the kind of impact I'm talking about, Scott. I don't have to meet him to understand that."

"Still, you've never actually met him. You don't know what he's like. Or what he's capable of."

"Well, we just met this thief, too. What do we really know about him?"

"I trust Ororo's judgment." Which meant he was supporting her choice, but, by his tone, was still worried about her.

"Ororo is thinking with her hormones right now, Scott," Jean said, a grim smile on her lips.

"Maybe, but I'd rather you just came home."

"Scott, the Professor and I have commitments here…"

"Okay, okay," he said, sighing heavily. And if she'd been standing beside him she would have seen him scrub his hand across his chin – his irritated gesture. He hated not having all the information he needed when he felt a battle coming on. And that he felt one was coming was clear, she could tell. And that gave her brief pause. "Just promise me you'll call and tell me what the Professor has to say about all this, okay?"

"I promise," she said.

* * * * *

On his way out of Salem Center, the quaint, semi-rural township closest to Xavier’s school, Remy LeBeau stopped at a convenience store with a public phone. He used a custom-designed calling card to place a special call. Waited with calm patience through half a dozen rings. Finally, a recorded voice invited him to leave a message. He did so, clearly and precisely. Then hung up.

The first step taken, he climbed back into the rental car and headed for the city.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau slid off his motorcycle, glancing casually around the nearly deserted side street as he removed his helmet and ran a graceful hand through loose, sweat-dampened hair. Dark sunglasses, as well as eye-concealing contact lenses, protected his sensitive eyes from the bright sun; it was barely mid-morning and already hot. The day only promised to get hotter.

New York City in the summer, he mused ironically, what a joy. Why hadn't he left as he'd been tempted to? Remy hung his helmet on the back of the bike and sighed, knowing the answer to that was plain even as he thought it. He slipped his fingers into his front pocket and pulled out an elegant carved wooden clip. A rather feminine design, but that hardly bothered him. He gathered his hair up at the nape of his neck and secured it there.

The clip was hers, of course. Fool. He was lost already. Distance wouldn't matter.

He glanced once more around the street, taking note of the few pedestrians and stoop-sitters taking advantage of the morning shade that still clung to the street. People anxious to absorb what little coolness remained before the sun rose high enough to bake it all away. No one seemed to pay him more than token attention, but he lowered his shields briefly to be certain. He detected nothing that focused on him. Plenty of dull irritation/anger/despair here, but none of it directed his way. He straightened up and turned toward his goal, fingers brushing the front of his vest to make certain his deck of cards was within easy reach in the front pocket.

He had visited one of his scattered storage stashes on the way into the City and traded in his long duster for the specially designed vest. Leather, of course, and stiff enough to conceal his tools in the hidden inner pockets. The carrying capacity of the vest was far less than his coat, but the heat would make his full attire both far too conspicuous and difficult to wear.

It left him weaponless, since he couldn't carry his collapsed bo staff inconspicuously in the vest. Well, it wasn't as if was ever completely weaponless, he thought with a faintly roguish grin as he approached the cracked steps of a certain apartment building.

He entered the dim lobby of the run-down building. It was already warm inside and smelled, as always, of dust, mildew and boiled cabbage. He didn't bother to ring any of the battered looking buttons next to the wall of mailboxes inside, but just ran nimbly up the stairs. Three flights. Came to a stop on the landing, not even breathing hard. Strolled down the hallway to the last door on the right. Pulled off his sunglasses and knocked once.

The door opened sharply, but only a crack, clattering loudly against a security chain. Remy found himself staring down the barrel of a large caliber pistol. He didn't flinch, just rolled his eyes in disgust.

"C'est moi. Poltron."

"Gambit," a hoarse voice identified him with undisguised relief. The gun wavered slightly. He smiled, the expression verging on a sneer.

"Who else?"

"Well, no one else I know is quite as spectacularly paranoid as you are, true," came the sharp reply. "They usually just come down to the office. You know, where my desk is. And a decent coffee maker. And where there aren't roaches the size of Volkswagens in the kitchen…"

Remy sighed. Old argument. Even older complaints. "Just let me in, Jake."

"Damn it, Gambit, don't do that!" the voice behind the door wailed. "It's 'Courier' when we're working." The gun barrel disappeared. The door shut with a sharp snap, there was a rattling of chain, then it opened again to reveal a slender, handsome vaguely Asian-looking young man dressed in an elegant business suit. The imposing gun dangled carelessly from his hand.

"What's this?" the young man sneered as he scanned Remy's attire of tight pale blue tee shirt, black leather vest, dark jeans and boots with clear disdain. "Going for the biker-fag look now are we?"

"Why dress up if Gambit jus' comin' to see you, le fou?" Remy said and pushed past the other man, crowding him back as he swung the flimsy door closed behind them. Then he snatched the gun out of the slack grasp and checked the safety as Jake glared at him. It was on, of course. He shook his head in disgust.

"It's a miracle you're still alive," Remy said tightly, all accent gone to emphasize his anger. He personally didn't like guns, deliberately chose not to use them, but knew they had to be respected. So he had learned how to use them properly. "The safety's still on."

"I know that, you bitch," the other man said airily, not alarmed by Remy's reaction. "I hate guns. Besides, it's not even loaded."

The young man Jake rolled his eyes dramatically and, seemingly undaunted by Remy's anger as well, stepped past him into the dingy apartment with a little annoyed toss of his head. His perfectly styled hair fell back into place without any trace of disturbance. His shoes were the finest Italian make; the watch on his wrist alone could probably pay the rent of everyone in the building for a month. He was even more out of place in this neighborhood than Remy was, and yet - Remy pulled the clip and checked the chamber to be certain, lip curling in a snarl as he saw it was true - he was walking around with an unloaded weapon.

Remy narrowed his gaze on Jake as he slammed the empty clip back home. Then he tossed the useless weapon onto the dingy couch nearby. The apartment was filled with cheap furniture, but the place was uninhabited. Jake kept it that way as a meeting place. "How many times do I have to tell you - don't carry. You'll only get yourself shot some day."

"Right, whatever," Jake said, folding his arms over his chest and pouting almost comically. "Like you actually care."

"Non, you're right. Dere's no pity in dis heart for fools," he glared at the younger man, then fought himself back under control. Jacob Gavin Jr. was the spoiled-rotten, filthy rich, bored, dilettante son of the owner of one of the underworld's most respected and reliable neutral courier services. If you needed something sensitive or valuable hand-carried from Point A to Point B without detection or interception by either legitimate or illicit sources, International Courier Services was the way to go.

Which was exactly how Remy had first encountered Jake. He'd been hired to steal something Jake was responsible for transporting. Then, to his intense surprise, Jake had stolen it right back from him. Something that had never happened to him before. Or since. It had been an insult that the Master Thief Gambit could not allow to pass.

However, it had only happened because Jacob Gavin was a mutant too. But not a fighter. No. Not Jake. Jake's talents lay in an entirely different direction; subterfuge, misdirection, deception. Yet Remy had still managed to track Jake down and take the item back once more. Completing his own contract at the cost of some of International Courier's prestige. Something for which Jake had yet to fully forgive him. Their acrimonious friendship had only grown from there.

It had helped that Jake was also a self-declared coward and wimp, and often, Remy added with a mental sigh, a major pain in the neck. Like now. Besides, it wasn't as if a simple gunshot wound would do Jake much damage, but it would certainly out the little shit as a mutant. And make Remy's life just that much more complicated. In light of that, he couldn't afford to let Jake get to him right now. The spoiled rotten snot. Too bad he was so useful. In so many ways. "Did you get de information?"

He had the brief satisfaction of seeing Jacob Gavin, Jr. blanch, then he went into full alert mode; wary, focused. Because whatever else the little bastard was, he knew his business. Information. And something he'd found bothered him.

"You know, the one reason I still take your commissions is because they're invariably weirder than shit," Jake said, clearing his throat nervously and tugging at his subtly striped tie. "They break up the raging boredom that is my life. But, you know, this one is - well, it's beyond weird and is verging on the creepy."

"Jake," Remy said warningly, frowning and shifting his sunglasses in his hand restlessly. There was another, better reason Jake worked for him, but Remy didn't feel like reminding him of that. Yet.

"Your broker's dead, you know. A tug fished most of his body out of the river this morning," Jake said, looking a little green. Remy simply raised a brow, not truly surprised. "His neck was broken. Clean." Jake shivered delicately in distaste.

Remy felt a brief pang of remorse that was swiftly buried under disquiet.

Bernard had apparently been right to be afraid. But it was a dangerous business they engaged in. And fucking your people over, as Bernard had done to him, was the surest way to prevent them from grieving for you whole-heartedly when you did end up in the river. He frowned briefly at his own cynical thoughts, certain that his goddess would never understand that portion of him. The part that had fought and struggled and survived against all odds - at any price. And still would. What would happen if that part of him came into conflict with his goddess? He tried not to think about it; survival was rarely pretty. And if he was nothing else, he thought bitterly, he knew he was a survivor.

"He also has claw marks on his neck - big ones. They can't figure those out."

Remy stayed silent, frowning faintly, gaze unfocused as he pondered his own nature, clearly only half listening. Jake sighed in exasperation. Obviously hoping for a bigger reaction to his news.

"Well, if you knew he was dead, why the hell are you harassing me anyway?" Jake snapped. Remy's gaze flicked up to meet his, locking there steadily until Jake dropped his gaze, unable to meet it any more. He flushed and shifted nervously. Remy watched him intently, expression hard.

"I just suspected," he finally said. "Did you get the rest?"

Jake frowned, looked away. Shifted on his feet some more. He seemed almost embarrassed now. Remy resisted the urge to scan his emotions. He knew Jake. Jake would spill all without him having to do a thing other than frown at him slightly. And after a moment Jake did just that.

"I tried. Really I did. But I must have touched off some kind of security flag I'm not familiar with, because Dad came in and wanted to know what the hell I thought I was doing," Jake said, flushing slightly, a touch of outrage in his defiant gaze. "He shut me down and kicked me out of the office for the day. Told me to go home and stay out of trouble."

Sudden alarm raced through Remy, but he hid it from Jake. All that from a simple inquiry on a supposedly legitimate scientist? Ah, but the inquiry had come through Jake's semi-legitimate and yet sometimes shady channels. Interesting. Worrying. The closer he came to the truth, the more his instincts screamed for him to run. There was danger here. Mortal danger. But for him personally… or for his goddess?

"Did y' get anything before y' poppa showed?" Remy asked after a moment of silent musing.

Jake sighed extravagantly, folding his arms over his chest as he gave Remy a slow once-over. Remy frowned at him, his own eyes narrowed. Courier had recovered his nerve, apparently. And was examining him curiously in return.

"What's with you?" Jake demanded, frowning in puzzled annoyance. He unfolded his arms to wave a hand vaguely at the air between them. "You're all broody and shit."

"Nothing t' concern you," Remy muttered, crossing his own arms over his chest. "Let's stick t' business here."

Jake sneered and widened his eyes mockingly at him. "Whatever you say, Gambit. Business it is. Cash up front."

"Jake -," Remy began, irritation rising.

"What? You get me in trouble with Dad, show up acting all strange and dressed all tacky… and besides, you still owe me for the last 'little favor' you asked me to do!" Jake snapped, cutting him off indignantly. Then he frowned, tone softening, "What's going on, Rem? You in too deep?"

Silence. He glared at Jake.

Unlike Bernard, Remy actually liked Jake - however he'd die before telling the spoiled little shit that - and that was all that saved the other man from a quick smack upside the head for poking his nose where it didn't belong.

Jake just smiled at him smugly, flicking his gaze over him as he read Remy's frustrated annoyance and promptly misinterpreted it. Remy's irritation grew. He knew what Jake wanted. Knew the rules of their game well. But he didn't have time to play today.

"Got no time now t' take you dancin', Jake," he said flatly, nearing the end of his patience. Jake was necessary. He really couldn't afford to alienate him, he told himself warningly. Really. Le fils de la putain.

"Tease," Jake said, running his gaze over his body again, this time ogling him blatantly. "I could change and we could go tonight - Dad never lets me have any fun anymore since you caught me. And it's been months. Nobody dances like you do, Rem. I'm bored with everyone else." He pouted briefly, watching Remy for a reaction, frowning when he didn't get what he expected. "Hm, maybe I should just go home like Dad said…" Remy fought his ballooning irritation for a moment, felt himself losing. Now was definitely not the time for their little game. He was already on edge about the new woman in his life - the woman who managed to intrude on his thoughts even while he was working - and he was still nursing annoyance from his earlier encounters with first an insulting Logan and then an idiotic car rental agent, so he decided to change the rules.

Remy let a predatory smile cross his lips. Knowing. Filled with heat. Then he lowered his lashes and gazed at Jake intently from under them, letting the grin play over his face and dumping a little menace out through his shields. Let the little worm deal with that, he thought recklessly.

"You so bored, maybe I quit teasin' den, mon petite ami," Remy said, lowering his voice to a husky purr. Jake's gaze widened almost comically and he gasped, taking a startled step back. "Maybe I take you… dancing… right now."

"N-now, Remy, I-I was just kidding you know!" Jake said, paling. Recognizing Remy on the prowl. And appalled that for once Remy had taken him up on his invitation - he was even starting to sweat, Remy noted with some satisfaction. Jake and his strangely twisted morals. The boy felt safe flirting with him, because he knew Remy knew he had no intention of following through. Not like this, anyway. It was a dangerous game of bluff and innuendo they'd played with each other for quite some time now. All the more dangerous because Remy had long been aware of Jake's big secret - and the possibilities it entailed.

Because Jake was a mutant too. More specifically a shapeshifter.

"Really? And I thought you wanted me," he said, voice still barely above a soft purr. "Who's teasin' now, Jake?" He took a short step toward the other man. Who backed away three whole steps before bumping up against the couch and falling down on the rickety arm of it with a little yelp of surprise. He sat there staring up at Remy in a kind of fascinated shock, swallowing hard. Remy could feel the reluctant excitement, the guilt, the confused longing roll off Jake in waves and felt a pang of remorse. But only a pang. Poor boy, but he'd just picked the wrong day to push.

"NO! I - not like this! Remy! I w-was just yanking your chain…"

Remy shook his head in amusement and slammed his shields closed again, banking the fire in his gaze back down to simple annoyance. Jake slumped back with a sigh of relief.

"What's with you today?" the boy whined, wiping his hand across his brow. Remy left the sneer on his lips. If he eased up on the boy he'd be back to teasing in no time. And he didn't have time for that.

"Info, Jake. Now."

"Okay, okay! Man. Whew. Lighten up," Jake said, shooting him a wary look before clearing his throat. "Okay. Essex is attending some huge scientist convention downtown at the Ritz-Carlton this week. Main speaker and everything. He's a double Nobel Laureate; Genetics and Medicine. Main residence is in London, but he heads a rather impressive lab in Edinburgh. Holds several dozen medical and drug patents. The guy's a freakin' genius. "

"I know all that already," Remy said impatiently.

"Oh. Well, he's a widower. No known current lover. Had a kid, but he died a while ago too."

"Jake."

"So what don't you know?" Jake wailed. Remy just shook his head silently, gaze still hard. Jake looked uneasy again. "Well, did you know he's got a house right on Long Island then?"

Remy came alert, hands dropping to his side, all pretense gone. "No. Tell me."

Jake obediently reached into his suit jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a green and white printout. Remy snatched it out of his hand and read it, quickly memorizing the address and coded description detailed there. Then he handed it back, letting the teasing smile return.

"Dat's a good one, Jake. Might even be worth a kiss." Jake blanched as he tucked the printout away again, shaking his head tightly. Remy just smiled wider. Ah, the bluff had been well and truly called. He had the upper hand now.

"I've got more - you asked about the Assassin's Guild too!" Jake said desperately. And inside, Remy went very, very cold and very still, all amusement and satisfaction wiped instantly away by old fear.

"Start talkin'…"

* * * * *

Bright sunlight made the city glow with an oddly fresh aura beyond the tall windows. Even though it was heating up rapidly, and the humidity was climbing, the city appeared clean and calm from this air-conditioned height. The very air outside the windows seemed to shimmer with promise, perhaps, of happiness or satisfaction.

But not in this office.

Candra, the head of the Assassin's Guild, stood rigidly by the window, staring blankly out it.

"I have so far been unable to locate him," she said to the air. "I am forced to conclude that he has left town. It is part of his pattern that when he feels threatened, he moves on. He could be anywhere in the world by now, using any alias."

"I disagree, Madame Candra," a cool, cultured voice said from the speakerphone on her desk. It was an excellent quality phone because all of Essex' subtle menace was clearly conveyed. "I believe Gambit is still in town, and, with a little judicious manipulation, can quite easily be convinced to complete his job for me."

The tall blonde woman whirled around to glare at the inoffensive phone as if it were the speaker himself. Her hands fisted at her sides.

"If you have leads that you are holding back from me…" she began, a hint of irritation seeping through into her own cool tone.

"On the contrary, Madame Candra, I have no direct information. I simply perceive patterns few others are capable of detecting. While your… zeal is appreciated," he said, tone becoming subtly mocking for an instant. She glared at the speakerphone, lip lifting in a slight snarl. He suspected, she realized. Suspected that she hoped to find LeBeau first - and keep him. "If you simply place your men at points where they can be dispatched efficiently, I am certain our thief will surface shortly. Indeed, I am confident it will not be so very much longer at all."

"And what leads you to that confidence?" she said, keeping her voice calm with some difficulty, and pacing a few steps behind her desk before stopping herself. The sound would carry and Essex would know of her irritation. It didn't pay to reveal too much to the man, that was obvious now. She was less and less sanguine about this working relationship, and if LeBeau hadn't been involved she would have severed all ties with Essex long ago. The man was chilling, even to an Assassin. But for the chance to have Remy LeBeau under her power again, she would risk much.

"Certain inquiries were detected. He is gathering information," Essex said, a cold amusement touching his tone. "Perhaps he will even come to me."

Candra's eyes widened slightly. A feral smile curled her lips. Essex was at the Ritz-Carlton this week. A highly publicized event.

"Very well, I will deploy my personnel as you suggest," she said crisply.

"See that you do," Essex said, still with that annoying hint of cold amusement in his voice, then the line was disconnected. She verified the call was fully disengaged before rapidly dialing again. She folded her arms over her chest, staring blankly at the desk as the phone rang. Essex could become a problem, but she had other priorities right now.

"Toussaint," she snapped as soon as the line was answered. "I want the best team to infiltrate the Ritz-Carlton immediately. LeBeau may appear there soon."

"As you wish, Madame," a male voice replied obediently. She snapped off the connection, then turned to stare out over the city once more. Satisfaction curved her lips.

Soon. Soon she would have him in her power again. Kneeling before her. Bound. Stripped. Subdued. Her thief.

In the years since he had slipped away from her, she had had a great deal of time to ponder the best ways to break him to her will. All of them painful. All of them degrading. Because break him she would. And perhaps once the novelty of having the once-proud thief serve her every whim faded, she would kill him. Slowly.

And then there would be no one alive who could resist her power.

 

* * * * *

This waking was far from easy. She lifted her head from the cold floor slowly. The throbbing in her skull was making her dizzy, but she still pushed herself up on her hands, fighting a groan, as she looked around. She was in a cell. Narrow, dim, made of concrete. Metal toilet at the back. A tiny sink beside it. A fold down bunk up against the wall. Bars covered the far end. She could see out through them into another one of those glitteringly clean lab rooms like she'd passed through before. Intimidating equipment covered the far wall. A central exam table, like in a doctor's office, took up the middle of the room. But unlike a regular doctor's office, this table had straps all over it. It looked as if they were intended to hold someone down who didn't want to be there.

She shuddered and swallowed hard, sitting up slowly, bone spikes scraping against the floor as she moved.

"'Bout time," a low voice growled from the room beyond. Creed paced into her field of view, massive arms folded over his chest. He was watching her from narrowed eyes, an avid look on his face. "It's just about show-time, girlie, or so the boss says. And you'll wanna see what's comin' up next." He laughed harshly and walked away.

Sarah huddled around herself, head aching, body sore. Glared back at the spot where Creed had been as despair washed over her. Too little, too late. She should have tried to leave last night, in the dark. Hadn't she learned anything from the street? Night was the time to move. But instead she'd stupidly fallen asleep after stuffing her face. What good had the food done her after all? She should have run instead.

Because now… now she was probably going to die. And there was no one out there in the whole world anywhere who would miss her when she was gone.

* * * * *

Dr. Jean Grey sat at a table in the elegant café just off the main lobby of the Ritz Carlton, trying to suppress her impatience. She was nursing her second cup of tea. Ever since Scott's call had dragged her out of her first seminar, she'd been trying to pin down the Professor, but he was engaged in a closed-doors discussion with several colleagues in a private conference room. She'd risked mind-speaking him to give him the flavor of Scott's concern, but he'd asked her to wait; all his considerable powers of concentration had been focused on the conversation he had been having.

She'd brushed off Scott's concerns earlier, but the longer she waited, thinking about the potential for disaster for the School and the children if someone revealed they were mutants to the press, the more nervous and worried she became. The threat was all the more menacing because it was so well-informed. A world-class thief, one who just happened to have excellent mental shielding, had been hired to copy their medical data. For what purpose? And who in the world, outside the members of their small school, knew enough about their abilities - about the Professor's, at least - to understand that would be a critical requirement?

Her stomach dropped suddenly. One person, at least, was intimately familiar with Charles Xavier's mental abilities. Eric Lensherr. Magneto.

"You must excuse my intrusion on your solitude," a faintly accented masculine voice interrupted her suddenly fearful musings. "But do I have the pleasure of addressing Dr. Jean Grey?"

Jean jumped slightly, looking over her shoulder in surprise. She hadn't heard or felt anyone approach her table. A tall, austere-looking man with dark hair slicked back from his narrow face was standing behind her. His skin was very pale, nearly pigment-less, like an albino, yet he watched her with piercing intensity from deep brown, almost black eyes. He was dressed in a charcoal colored suit that clearly said expensive European tailoring. A convention badge hung from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, nearly obscuring the neatly folded handkerchief it contained, but she couldn't read the name inscribed on it from this angle.

Jean shook herself mentally, confused. She felt nothing from him. No mental presence at all. Even when she was blocking as heavily as it was necessary to do in a densely populated location like this she could often still feel a kind of mental echo from those around her. Particularly when they stood as close as he was. But from this man there was nothing. Which just wasn't possible - unless he had telepathic shields of some kind. Her pulse jumped slightly in alarm.

"Why… yes, I'm Dr. Jean Grey," she answered calmly, covering the faintly stretched moment of silence by carefully setting her teacup down before turning around completely in her chair to face him.

The man allowed a tiny smile to touch the corner of his thin mouth, his dark gaze never wavering from hers. It was a strangely chilling expression.

"It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Grey," the man said with a faint, respectful inclination of his upper body and head. A very European gesture. "I have observed the recent U.S. Government hearings on human mutation with great interest. Your presentation to the Senate on the reluctance of mutants to be persecuted for the simple fact of genetic variance, was, in my humble estimation, superb, particularly in the face of such vitriolic and myopic rhetoric."

"Thank you," Jean said shortly, her sense of unease growing quickly, and she fought hard to conceal it. She wanted to move away from him; her skin crawled faintly at his nearness. But why should this man's mere presence upset her so?

"Ah, you must forgive me, my manners are sadly lacking," the man said with a faintly self-deprecating laugh. "With these vulgar badges on display, I have become far too accustomed to being accosted by total strangers." He took a step closer, and Jean fought back a shudder of unease as he extended his hand to her.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the tall man said with a faint inclination of his head, dark eyes watching her closely. "I am Dr. Nathaniel Essex."

With a forced, polite smile, Jean reached up to shake his hand.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau crouched just inside the towering hedges at the rear of the park-like estate that Courier's printout had indicated belonged to one Dr. Nathaniel Essex, of London, England. This was, apparently, just one of many homes the doctor had, scattered about the world. This one was a 'small' retreat on Long Island, a little more than an hour's drive outside New York City, yet far enough to provide refuge from the crowds of the great metropolis. He frowned at the house, gaze running over it professionally. Worth several million, at least, but not outstanding in style or landscaping, except for the concealing hedge. But most of the homes in this area had been isolated from each other in some extreme fashion; by distance, fences or dense plantings. Rich lifestyles. Privacy at a premium. Isolation prized. It made a thief's job so much easier, he thought with a saucy grin.

Then Remy LeBeau faded until only Gambit remained; the Master Thief intent on the job.

The house looked like it had at least a dozen bedrooms on the upper floor. Most of the living areas; dining room, kitchen, library and such appeared to take up the main level. He should be able to find a way in through the kitchen, usually the most vulnerable point, which was why he'd approached from the rear of the property in the first place. But first, he needed to assess how many occupants the house had. No one was immediately visible through any of the windows he could see into, so he would have to use his own personal method since he didn't have the luxury of time to do the more thorough research and mundane observation of a target that he preferred.

He lowered his mental shields cautiously.

Rage/despair/pain/unease/rage/fear/rage/anticipation/rage/rage/RAGE…

Hot and red and dripping with bloodlust, anger poured out of the house in front of him like a wave, consuming everything else. It seemed to come from someone - something - inside the house…

Instantly, he reeled back in shock, even losing his balance and falling awkwardly against the hedge before he could slam his shields closed again. Gambit shook his head, moaning softly in pain, nausea churning his gut. What the hell had that been? He sat, sprawled gracelessly on the ground near the hedge, staring at the house in horrified shock.

He hadn't been so overcome by an emotion outside himself since - well, since Scott Summers opened that strange chamber in the basement of Xavier's mansion yesterday - but before that, it had been years. Years and miles away. He frowned. It couldn't be… He steadied himself, bolstering his internal shields. No. He'd been taken by surprise once, but now he was ready. That wave of rage wouldn't put him on his ass again, he vowed grimly as he climbed slowly to his feet, still unsettled. The brief exposure had been enough for his reconnaissance purposes, however. There were three people in the house, but the rage had been so overpowering he hadn't been able to get a good sense of their locations other than 'in'.

He was dressed for work, in a body-hugging navy blue suit, covered for his approach to the property by a non-descript and untraceable dull green workman's coverall. The coverall was already bundled under the substantial hedge behind him. He'd removed it as soon as he determined the hedge blocked all views from surrounding dwellings. His working suit was made of Kevlar cloth, lightly armored at knee, hip, shoulder and elbow with high-impact plastics, and covered with zippered pockets and attached pouches that contained all his working tools. As well as a few extras.

He pulled the pieces of his bo out of their loop holders on his thighs and snapped the adamantium staff together with grim determination, placing it by his side. Then he opened two fresh packs of cards, fanned them, and slipped them into the special holders on his belt within easy reach of either hand. The concealing mask went over his face; darkened goggles over his eyes. He tucked his bound hair down the high collar of his shirt.

Nothing remained exposed to identify him. Except after a second's pause he abruptly pulled off his gloves, drew a utility knife from a pouch and cut the ring finger off of each glove. He had to touch an item with his bare skin to charge it. He had no way to know if he'd have time to get his gloves off once inside, and blowing off the finger of a glove would hurt. That raw rage had unsettled him. He'd just have to be extra careful not to leave fingerprints behind.

He slipped the knife away, tucked the pieces of glove into another pocket reserved for trash he didn't want to leave behind, and placed his staff under his arm with a quick spin. Then he walked straight over the lawn, up onto the terrace and crossed briskly to the kitchen door. Where he tried the handle like anyone would. It was locked. With a philosophical shrug he pressed his face as close to the glass as possible without touching it, peering inside. The visible room was empty. It was a big kitchen, set up in a vaguely industrial way as if it were frequently used to prepare large quantities of food. He didn't see the tell-tale shape of an alarm box near the door, but that didn't preclude a warning system of some kind. He'd have to risk it. Gambit smiled devilishly under his mask and drew out the appropriate tools before settling down to pick the lock.

He had it open in only a few seconds. Then stepped inside and checked again for an alarm system. Eyes widened behind his goggles when he found the flat-panel display set flush with the wall beside the door. He scanned it quickly, determining after a few pulse-surging seconds that it wasn't armed. He frowned at it. It was a custom system too. Top of the line. But not currently activated. A fact that made him distinctly uneasy.

He put his tools away even as he scanned the vacant kitchen, bo staff once more braced in his hand and tucked under his arm. A hallway lead from one side; there were two doors in the other wall. One probably went to a pantry area. He moved silently across the floor, listening closely before checking behind both doors.

One did lead to a pantry, as he'd thought. It was large and very well stocked. The other door, a swinging door, led to a small service room set with wide counters and glass-fronted cabinets filled with elegant glassware and plates. A formal dining room was probably beyond it through the second set of swinging doors on the other side. He eased the door shut, making certain it didn't squeak, and turned his attention back to the hallway that led to the rest of the house.

There was an elevator door set a short way down the hall from the kitchen. Pausing in front of it, he noted that the stainless steel doors were bent in slightly, as if something big and heavy had run into them. Odd. Damaged equipment in a place like this? It didn't seem to fit.

With a frown he determined to check it out later. For now, he wanted to find the good doctor's office and look through his papers and files. It was usually the best way to start. Gambit moved silently down the hall, all his senses on the alert for occupants, but he kept his mental shields tightly closed, still wary of the source of that searing rage.

* * * * *

It was already almost three in the afternoon. She had stopped looking at the clock after lunch came and went with no sign of Remy's return. Her bravado of morning had long since faded and a fluttering feeling that she didn't want to admit might be fear had settled in her stomach. With a stifled sigh, she once more adjusted the dark lenses that covered her eyes against the afternoon glare. It was a lovely, hot summer day that she'd had nothing to do with creating. She should just enjoy it.

She sighed out loud this time.

Was she just being foolish? What real assurances had he given that he'd return? And how had he make her care so deeply so quickly? Touched her heart so completely, this Remy LeBeau? This sudden willingness to make herself emotionally vulnerable to him still made her uneasy.

Ororo Monroe lay on a lounge chair at the edge of the Olympic-sized pool behind the mansion, ostensibly keeping an eye on the swimming children. The younger kids had had their turn earlier in the day and this batch was mainly the older ones. A few of them were splashing about in the deep end, diving for colored rings and playing a kind of water polo, but the roughhousing was at a minimum right now, since there seemed to be more furtive muttering and talking going on than swimming. Jubilee and St. John, the usual instigators of mayhem, were lounging on the submerged steps, while Kitty was serenely floating on her back nearby. Rogue, with a skin-covering leotard worn under her practical one-piece suit, was sitting on the edge a little removed from the others, her covered feet kicking lazily in the water.

Deceptively peaceful. Like the calm before a storm. And no one could sense coming storms better than she. But would it just be a personal one… or one that would affect them all?

All the kids looked up as Scott came briskly down the path from the main house, a set look on his face. Ororo watched his approach, brow furrowing faintly as she noted her friend's urgency.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, keeping her voice low. Scott stopped beside her lounge chair and thrust his hands into his slacks pocket. Trying to look casual rather than tense and failing completely.

"I don't know yet. I talked to Jean first thing this morning, and she promised to call me back after she spoke with the Professor," he said, equally quiet. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. "She still hasn't called." Ororo straightened up, lowering her feet to the ground.

"Have you called the front desk of the hotel?"

"Two hours ago and then again half an hour ago. They paged her, but she didn't answer. And she hasn't left any messages for me either."

Ororo's pulse leaped with sudden fear. She could see the worry on Scott's face. The anxiety. He was clearly torn between responsibility and need. Just as she was. "They're in a public location, Scott," she said as soothingly as she could manage with her pulse jumping. "Attending a major convention. There are people everywhere. What could happen?"

"That's just it. Nothing should be able to happen to them there," he said grimly. "But it's not like Jean to drop out of contact like that. Or the Professor."

She sucked in a surprised breath. "You can't raise him either?"

"No. The best answer I get is that he's unavailable due to the conference."

They stared at each other in strained silence, a tableau broken only when a voice called to them from the other side of the pool. Rogue's.

"Mr. Summers? Ms. Monroe? What's wrong?"

Ororo rose to her feet, ignoring the girl's question as a wave of apprehension swept through her. "I'm going in to the City."

"Ororo, I should…"

"You know I blend best," she said firmly, trying not to allow her own unease to show in her voice. "It's better if you and Logan stay here." She could feel the weight of his gaze on her from behind red shades, sense the depth of his frustration. Jean and the Professor. His lover and his mentor; her friend and her mentor as well. Out of touch. Both possibly in danger – or just enjoying a rare day interacting with colleagues. Panic now would do no one any good and this Scott knew as well as she did. But in light of recent events, it paid to make certain.

She gathered up her robe and sandals and slipped into them, covering the tiny red bikini she wore as she suppressed the surge of disappointment over the fact that when – not if, she told herself – Remy showed up, she'd miss his return. But her friends and the school had to come first.

Scott stepped back, lips held in a grim line. He wanted to protest, she knew. He was clearly torn between his responsibility to the school and its students and his growing concern for two people of vital importance to him too. But without stronger evidence of trouble other than temporary loss of contact, Scott would not act on his fears. But she could – and would. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the four older students watching them both warily. She knew Scott was aware of their alarmed scrutiny as well, and after a tense moment he gave her a sharp nod of agreement.

"Take a cell phone."

* * * * *

The office was near the rear of the house on the northern side. He found it easily. The door was locked, but quickly yielded to his skill. He slipped inside after listening closely for almost a full minute to the quiet sounds of the house around him. Nothing moved close by. He was still alone on this floor.

The room was decorated in dark, heavy woods. Deep green silk covered the walls. All the fixtures were muted brass. It was a somber space. Gambit suppressed a shiver as he slipped inside and closed the door.

The wall behind the desk was covered with wooden filing cabinets, but he moved to the desk first. It was clear except for the usual office type implements all in matching fine-wood holders and a leather blotter set precisely in the center of the wide desk. There was no telephone on the desk nor any other kind of modern office equipment in the room. Just an ornate antique silver and ivory fountain pen set that he quickly estimated was worth more than the ornate desk it sat on. Yet it looked as if it were still being used.

He moved the leather chair slowly back from the desk and assessed the drawers. The unlocked ones didn't interest him. The single locked one did. He picked it carefully - wary of scratching the soft brass of the lock and leaving signs to his presence. Not good for the reputation, that.

The surprisingly clever lock finally yielded. Inside the narrow drawer were several unlabeled but sealed glass vials filled with faintly cloudy liquid and a leather-bound book.

The book was actually a fancy ledger detailing some kind of coded account transactions. He lifted it out carefully and opened it, then paged through the seemingly ordinary entries within. Well, ordinary for a genetics researcher, apparently. There were notations regarding payments made to several large biomedical companies and health institutions that Gambit was vaguely familiar with. He might have infiltrated one or two of them over the course of his career. Stealing items of interest; samples, papers, computer files. Industrial espionage always paid well. He let his mind wander slightly, trying to find the connections between them all, not focusing his full attention on the transactions until his gaze skipped across one dated two weeks ago.

His breath sucked in sharply as he stared at the page. It was a sizeable amount, granted, but that wasn't what had leaped out at him and made him shudder. It was the name of the payee: Victor Creed.

He flipped through the ledger again, looking more closely. But there was only the one payment. For security services. To Victor Creed. Otherwise known as Sabretooth. A former assassin. And he knew this because he made it his business to know all the top assassins in the world. If the descriptions in the news were to be believed, as recently as that spring Sabretooth had quite possibly been one of those who had worked for the now-imprisoned mutant terrorist Magneto.

Gambit shivered. He had never personally encountered Sabretooth, but he'd heard dark and bloody tales of his lethal skill whispered for years all around the world. Once, he'd even seen the aftermath of one of his hits. The brutal images still occasionally haunted his dreams.

He straightened up then, closing the ledger carefully and placing it back exactly as he'd found it in the drawer. All the while remembering the overwhelming rage he'd touched earlier.

Creed was here, Gambit realized, as his body tensed. In this house right now.

And he remembered something else about Creed; he was rumored to have senses sharper than a wolf. So it was very possible that the assassin already knew he was here…

* * * * *

Sarah flinched as the familiar dark shape wrenched open the door at the front of her cell. Her head lifted as she warily watched her tormentor's advance. He was carrying something soft like a blanket in his other hand. She pressed back against the wall beside her, ignoring the aches and pains from some of the remaining bone spikes on her back as they bent under the pressure.

"Show-time, girlie," the big man growled, sharp teeth flashing in the dim light.

"Leave me alone," she muttered, glaring at him. Creed paused briefly in his advance, but only to throw his head back and laugh. Then he lunged forward, faster than she would have believed possible for such a big man without prior painful experience, and caught her by the leg, just above the knee. The thick nails on the ends of his fingers bit into her skin painfully; she yelped as he dragged her, struggling and kicking, into the center of the narrow cell. He loomed over her, sharp teeth bared openly now, dark eyes flat and somehow dead.

"Time to earn your keep, ugly," he said, sneering down at her. Then he flipped the blanket around her arms and head, binding her tightly in the scratchy folds, immobilizing her in an instant. Her arms were trapped at her sides, her mouth gaping open as she desperately tried to suck in more air in the stifling darkness, through the heavy blanket, struggling against the cloth.

"Won't suffocate if ya stay nice an' calm, girlie. Plenty of air gets through that weave. But you gotta behave," he said, chuckling darkly. Then he wrapped something around the blanket and her arms, pulling it tight. She gave a short cry of pain as a bone spike broke off under the pressure. Panic flared.

Air! She needed air. The blanket was hot. Stifling. Blood throbbed in her ears, pounded sickly in her throat as she struggled, growing dizzier, sicker as she did so. Gasping desperately. Until finally his mocking words penetrated through the primal panic.

If she didn't fight she'd be okay. Her body tensed to struggle, to resist, but fighting blindly hadn't done her any good before - he'd just beat her senseless again. So she'd better use her brain this time.

With difficulty, Sarah forced herself to go limp as rough hands picked her up and slung her over an iron-hard shoulder, head down, legs trapped by a brutal arm. She was dizzy and faintly sick; air was still too short and hot, but it was easier to get now. She sucked in each breath slowly, pressing her face against the blanket to work more air through the cloth as Creed started walking.

A hard hand patted her butt, making her jerk in alarm, her heartbeat jumping wildly in terror.

"Good girl," Creed said, his voice a low rumble of dark amusement. "Now I'm gonna catch me a thief."

* * * * *

Despite his certainty that the assassin Creed was lurking somewhere nearby, Gambit continued to gather as much information as he could. The sense of danger made the skin on the back of his neck crawl; he refused to be scared off that easily, yet the raw rage he'd sensed earlier made it too dangerous for him to search with his power for the source. So he compromised with his fears by softening his shields enough that if someone came within a room's width of him, he would be alerted. Then he set back to work grimly, discipline restored. No lowly Assassin was going to chase Gambit from a job. He quickly searched the rest of the desk and found nothing of real import in the unlocked drawers, as he'd expected. So he turned his attention to the file cabinets on the back wall.

The locks on them were again unexpectedly complex, but not a deterrent to his skill. He chose a drawer randomly, letting whim guide him.

The first drawer he opened was filled with neatly organized newspaper clippings. He pulled out a file at random and glanced into it. The National Enquirer. The Weekly World. The Sun. Tabloids. In the older files, pictures and articles on freaks of nature and reputed space aliens had been carefully preserved. As he worked his way through the drawer, skimming rapidly through file after file, articles from more main-stream publications began to appear. And the word used wasn't 'freak' or 'alien' any more. It was mutant. Then he came abruptly to a fairly recent copy of the front page of the New York Times.

Filling most of the page was an image that had been flashed around the nation - and the world - for weeks after it happened. It showed the Statue of Liberty standing in the middle of New York Harbor; her torch destroyed, the face and head of the statue severely damaged. And one of the spikes of her crown had even somehow been cut away.

He frowned at the picture thoughtfully and rubbed a gloved thumb over the picture, across the sternly beautiful face of the statue.

"Ah, chère," he whispered, realization striking him, along with a sharp surge of fear. "So brave. So lovely."

He closed the file with a snap, lips clamped in a frown as he fought the sudden anger that followed the fear. She'd risked herself for humans. For an entire city-full of people that would no doubt just as soon see her in a prison like the plastic one Magneto had ended up in if they found out she was a mutant too. Or see her dead. His too-fertile imagination gave him a graphic image of long white hair tangled and stained with blood before he shoved it away, drawing in a hissing breath of denial as he did so.

No. Not while he lived.

He put the file away and closed the file drawer, carefully locking it again. Then he stared blankly at the elegant wooden facing on the file cabinets for a moment before wrestling his emotions back under control. He was working. There was still the very real possibility of discovery. He couldn't afford distractions now. Fool, he scolded himself as he shook his head and selected another drawer at random. He picked the lock on that one too and found it filled with bound books. Each labeled in some kind of coded system. He pulled out several, skimming them before he put each of them back carefully in place.

The inside pages of each book were covered in crisp precise handwriting. Notes, apparently. Formulas. Calculations. Diagrams. Sketches. He fanned the pages curiously. All of it written out laboriously in longhand. Not electronically recorded, unless there were copies of them kept somewhere else. But for some reason he doubted that. They looked like log books of some kind. Written in a kind of coded English. He recognized a word here or there, but it was only after closer examination that he realized it wasn't a code at all, just detailed scientific notations. About genetics and medicine, biotechnology and chemistry. And extensive notes on experiments. In some cases, on living subjects. From the phrasing, and it was hard to tell for certain, he was starting to believe the subjects might have been… human.

He shivered. Most of the subjects had not survived. Three quarters of the way through the last book in the drawer the dense notes came to an abrupt end. On the last marked page of that volume, written carefully at the top of a blank page were the words 'Viable test subjects located. Phoenix Project implementation scheduled' and a date. Two weeks ago. The pages after that were blank.

Gambit replaced the notebook carefully in the drawer. Slid it closed and re-locked it just as he'd re-locked all the rest. A good thief never made it obvious that he had been there. And in particular this time, he was wary of leaving evidence that someone had rifled the doctor's personal notes.

Then, something touched the fringes of his extended awareness. Something menacing and deadly and intent.

Turning to face the door, Gambit smoothly caught up his bo staff from where he'd laid it on the floor beside him as he worked and braced himself for attack.

* * * * *

Long hair blowing back in the hot breeze of motion, Ororo Monroe drove along I-95 south toward New York City. She was nearly to the Triborough Bridge that led to Manhattan Island itself, her mind only partially occupied by the steadily thickening traffic. It had been an hour and a half since Scott had approached her at poolside. She'd showered, dressed and had been out of Salem Center in less than twenty minutes. It would probably be at least another thirty, given the growing density of traffic, before she could reach the hotel where the medical convention was being held. Before she could find out what – if anything – had happened to keep their friends from contact.

Her mind wandered between thoughts of gentle concern, surprising certainty and mild amusement as she remembered how Logan had surprised her again by following her to the car as she was preparing to leave.

"What you gonna do if the thief's neck deep in this?" he had said to her as she tossed her lightweight duster and beaded hip pouch onto the passenger seat of the silver Mercedes convertible parked in the cool dimness of the mansion's garage.

"I already know he is, Logan," she had replied, meeting his glower steadily, chin raised. "But not in the way you're thinking. Remy won't betray us."

"How do you know?" he had spat, taking a menacing step toward her, a sneer on his lips. She had just smiled serenely back and opened the car door to drop into the driver's seat. Logan had closed the door behind her, leaning over her ominously.

"I don't," she had said as she drew the seatbelt across her body, then stuck the key in the ignition. Looked up to meet his gaze one final time as she started the engine. "But I believe in him anyway."

 

* * * * *

She had been swallowed by darkness; falling into shifting depths untainted by even the memory of light, swirling, dragging, sucking her down. Past a towering cliff of fear. Into a chasm of anguish. Until she was suddenly alone and unmoving at the bottom of a well that she knew to be endless, crouching somewhere deep in the shelter of her own mind, in the place she'd found in the asylum, the one place where the voices couldn't touch her. But this wasn't right, something in her protested; part of her whimpering, frightened by the relentless darkness that surrounded her, the confusion and pain. She'd found her way out of here long ago. Found her way to the light. To love and confidence and the ability to face the voices without retreating inward…

What had happened? Why was she here again? Alone again in the hidden space that had once been her sanctuary, a little girl consumed by the minds of others, desperate for relief, for privacy, for simple silence… Finding it in the depths of her own mind… In total isolation… crouching away from the roar of voices in a disguise of deafness… refusing to listen… refusing to accept stimuli… turning in to keep the out contained… But this was different. A concealing, shifting, somehow seemingly aware darkness surrounded her. And where, this time, was the promise of a way out? The shining chinks that memory and hope had made in the darkness. The bright touches of reason. The glimmers of control. Unaccustomed panic and confusion rippled through everything, slowly eroding even her memory of those things. How long had she been trapped here? Forever? Alone… but somehow… not… alone…

Jean Grey could hear voices. With her ears or with her mind it was difficult to tell.

Voices whispering… voices mocking… voices teasing…

Not voices… a voice… a single, hypnotic, lulling voice… calling her… from the bottom of the well… deeper into the darkness… promising silence… peace… into the isolation… down… No. She would not give in to that voice… not succumb…

Determination rose. The stubborn strength that had served her before resurged. She fought the insidious voice, turning now in the narrow space in her mind… somehow… trying to find the surface, like a diver, searching futilely for the bubbles that would lead her back up to light and sound and hope again… finding nothing save more darkness and a whirling, shocking strength that somehow, knowingly, held her captive… despair… pain… fear… so alone…

She screamed. High and loud and long, lost in the memory of the little girl so alone… so lost… hope slowly draining away into blackness… but the echoes rebounded against the silence, making it flinch. What? A response? A reaction? Her scientist's curiosity rose, stifling the dregs of panic, the pain of memory. Giving her a precious thread of reason to focus upon. What was this place? How had she come to be here? And… was it really only her own mind?  
She gathered her will and screamed again. //Scott! Help me!//  
* * * * *

Before the dark presence could come any closer, Gambit left the office, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Any pretense was just a waste now and he preferred not to have to fight in such an enclosed space.

The rage knew he was there. It was waiting for him, eager and smug.

The elegant hall outside was still empty, but he could sense the pulse of rage even through his shields all the way from across the house, emitting from near the kitchen somewhere; the strength of that primal emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He winced and firmed up his mental shields. It was taking more strength than he was used to expending to keep it from crashing into his own mind and feeding on his own hidden anger. He slid silently down the hallway toward the main entryway, his bo staff held ready at his side.

"Can't believe ya were actually dumb enough ta come here, Gambit," a rough voice shouted, echoes bouncing through the hall. He froze, listening warily. "But ya did, just like the boss said, ya stupid fuck. We went an' got a present for ya. Better come an' see…"

Victor Creed. Sabretooth. Who else could it be? His lip lifted involuntarily in a disgusted sneer. Damn Assassins. Why were they always so cocky? There was no point in answering him yet, but he felt the short hairs on the back of his neck rise and fought the exposed reaction down firmly. And what the hell did he mean, a present for him?

Training and instinct warred with curiosity and pride. He'd been made too easily. Expected? How? He'd just discovered this place this morning… Head lifting, he cursed under his breath. Suddenly, Jacob's father's reaction made sense. Essex had been able, somehow, to trace the inquiry he'd ordered even through International Courier Services' security layers – Essex would know he'd discovered this local address. It didn't really take a genius to guess that Gambit would personally investigate a location so temptingly close by. A spark of real fear danced across his nerves; his well-honed instincts for self-preservation screamed at him. He should run. Now. He could get away out the windows of the office he'd just left. Be across the lawn and through the hedge before even the notorious Sabretooth could reach him. But… they had a present for him…? Bracing himself, Remy lowered his shields again fractionally. Prepared for the waves of smug rage beating on him this time, he probed further, reaching through it warily.

Fear/smothering/revulsion/ache/despair… A hostage! He slammed his shields back up again, cursing silently. It had to be. That was definitely not Creed, but it was coming from close by him.

It had taken only seconds to determine he couldn't leave yet. Remy moved through the junction of back hallways silently, pausing to look carefully around each corner. He'd sensed three in the house earlier. The second was the hostage, obviously. But of the third, he'd spotted no sign. That made him wary. It could be a trap – no, it was a trap… but he had little choice. He couldn't leave someone in fear and pain here because of him…

"Ya really are stupid." Creed's mocking voice came again as he moved silently toward the sound, into the back hall toward the kitchen. "Letting yerself get all sloppy an' shit…"

Remy paused outside the kitchen. It was brightly lit now, all lights blazing. It would be a bad place for a fight – close quarters, glaring surfaces. His agility and speed would be hindered, while Creed's reputed strength would have the advantage. Which was no doubt exactly why Creed had chosen this spot for his confrontation.

"Don't hide out there, thief… c'mon in… got someone anxious ta meet ya…" Rough laughter accompanied these taunting words along with the sounds of a brief scuffle. Someone whimpered. He heard the sound of flesh striking flesh. A muffled cry of pain.

He stepped around the corner into the kitchen, bo braced lightly in both hands.

Sabretooth was big. Damn big. That was the first thing he noted in his hasty initial scan of the kitchen. Bastard was six feet seven if he was an inch and covered with heavy muscle. He also took note of the smaller bundled shape draped over the big man's shoulder, a rough blanket bound around it. Much smaller. Kid-sized. Slender, bare legs showing; feet clad in dirty white sneakers. Saw smears of what looked like dried blood and maybe a broken bone… his own blood ran cold as he tore his attention away from the hostage and focused on the immediate danger.

Sabretooth was watching him, a nasty grin on his face. Fangs showed behind narrow lips. Fangs. And thick, dark claws on the hand that motioned at him mockingly… what the hell was he facing here? No ordinary Assassin, this one… Every sense he had was screaming danger at him, but he stood his ground, posture relaxed and ready. Wary, but not tense. Showing fear to this one, he sensed, would be fatal…

"Damn, that's some get-up. Guess ya take bein' a stinkin' thief pretty serious," Creed said, his small dark eyes glittering coldly with anticipation beneath bushy brows. "So lose the mask or I take a chunk out of yer present here." The bundle on his shoulder struggled briefly at the sound. He held it down easily with one big hand over its back, the other clawed hand hovering menacingly over the exposed legs.

Remy reached up and tugged the close-fitting hood and goggles free, not taking his eyes off Sabretooth the while. He still had his contacts in to protect his eyes from the light, but squinted for a moment anyway. He stuffed the items into the big pouch on his hip without fumbling. Creed smirked at him, gaze running over him freely, an eager light igniting behind those eyes.

"Fuckin' pretty-boy, ain'cha…" Creed muttered, menacing grimace becoming darker, tighter. He licked his lips once. "You fight as girly as you look, Gambit?"

He spun his bo once, locking it into position under his arm as he dropped into a ready crouch. Balanced. Poised. But if anything, Creed's grin just got sharper, as if he looked forward to a fight.

"What your boss want Gambit to do?" Remy asked, voice clipped and hard. Trying not to be distracted by the pathetically small shape slung over that broad shoulder. The big man just threw his head back and laughed. The sound seemed to echo forever, loud and painful, in the stainless steel and tile room.

"Don't screw around, do ya, Gambit? Good. I like that," Creed said at last, pinning him with his cold, killer's gaze again. "But ya fucked up da man's job once already… time ta do it right."

"Don't think so," he replied coldly, attention focused on Creed. He already knew where this was headed. His gut churned with anxiety. "Turned de job down once already."

"Yeah, but you've got a soft spot for the ladies, don'cha?" Creed said, his lips drawn back in a mocking smile as he lowered the bundle to the ground beside him, one hand clenched tight in the binding fabric. Remy tensed. Almost afraid to see what was inside. Creed tugged and the blanket fell partially away to reveal a young girl, her face marred by what looked like an odd bruising or growth over one eye. Her hair, a pale washed-out brown, hung limp and stringy around her thin face. Her eyes were bruised and hopeless. She blinked at him a moment as her vision adjusted to the brightness of the room after being encased in the dark blanket, then stared at him in wondering astonishment, her mouth dropping open.

"Oh, you are pretty…" the girl said, her voice hoarse, reverent. Sabretooth laughed harshly again, the sound making the girl flinch a little but her gaze never wavered from his face.

Remy concentrated on the girl, trying to find out if she was hurt. She was standing awkwardly, but that might just have been Creed's hold on her. He didn't really want to, under these conditions, but he had to find out. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his shields further than he had before.

The girl's wonder and fear washed over him. She was good at hiding it, but underneath a thin layer of weary anger, tattered pride and wondering amazement, terror and helplessness boiled. Pain, but not extreme. Hunger, a body-deep ache. Humiliation. Shame.

Beyond the girl's jumbled emotions lurked the dark pit that was Sabretooth. Ferocious rage and hunger. Deep. Consuming. Clawing and snarling at the edges of his mind, threatening to rend him asunder. He had once been accustomed to shielding against just those kinds of emotions… long ago on the streets that had been his home as a child… the devouring darknesses of hatred, lust, greed, cruelty… they threatened to suck him in again…

He wrenched his focus back to the girl, blocking Creed with effort. She was just staring at him, her eyes wide, and he felt the rising sense of peace and wonder she got from simply looking at him. It was almost worshipful. As if she truly believed he was some kind of angel, perhaps, sent down to deliver her from evil. Her last hope. The feelings dove deep inside him, tearing at his control. Hatred, fear, anger – those he could keep out. But hope? Adoration? Wonder? They tore at the heart of his own needs, hampering him.

Concealing the impact, he forced himself to keep a tenuous touch on the girl. He had absorbed it all in those few seconds he glanced over the girl.

Creed's nasty laughter ended at last. "She got that right, Gambit. Ya are pretty as a girl, ain'cha? Is that why everyone wants ya? You a good fuck too? Maybe I should find out."

Remy ignored the threat; it wasn't the first time he'd heard it's like. "No, dey all want me 'cause dere no better t'ief in dis world," he answered Creed harshly, struggling to force the girl's emotions away. He stared at her hollowly, knowing he was already trapped. "What's your name, petite?"

"Sarah," she answered. Her eyes were gray. Clear and bright now with the beginning spark of hope. That spark burned him deeper than all of Creed's rage. "Help me, please," she added after a moment of breathless silence. And he knew she was asking only because he was an angel to her – faintly unreal. He'd felt her stubborn pride as well, holding back the sharp edge of her despair.

"I will, petite," he promised. "You hold on."

"Fuckin' Christ, you are a softie, Gambit," Creed said in disgust. "Well, then why don't you see just what kinda nightmare yer savin' here, huh, pretty boy?"

Then Creed stripped the rest of the blanket away from her body. To reveal horror. Bones protruded from the girl's ribs, her arms, her thighs like blades; shattered, broken, raw. Blood oozed from patches on her pale, thin skin. She was wearing only a tube top and a pair of ragged shorts over this mess. He bit back a cry, heart recoiling in horror, but his face remained impassive; he refused to betray her that way. She was watching him with desperate hope. Guilt tore at him; it was because of him that this poor girl had been beaten and broken. He grimaced and shame and dismay and self-disgust raced through the girl's emotions but strangely, he realized at last, he wasn't getting a sense of overwhelming pain from her. He forced himself to look at her again, puzzled by that lack. After a moment it became clear to him… she wasn't hurt. Roughed up a bit, maybe, but… he looked closer. There were strange patches on her skin where it looked like the bone spurs had broken away, the flesh simply closing back over the gap, no blood seeping. Then there were other spots that still looked raw. She was, almost unbelievably, in little physical pain at all. Save for Sabretooth's hard hold around the scruff of her neck.

"Ugly as sin, ain't she?"

She was flushing now, tilting her head down, hiding her eyes. He could feel the shame well higher in her, savaging her pride, self-disgust joining it… and he was suddenly aware that he was hurting her far more than Sabretooth. She thought he agreed with him… But she wasn't ugly… just battered and different… a misunderstood mutant child… but her eyes… they were truly lovely when filled with hope and wonder…

"Got beautiful eyes, petite," Remy said to her quietly, voice filled with all the warmth he could infuse in it under the circumstances. "Be strong, my pretty Sarah."

Her head jerked up and she stared at him in astonishment, teetering between disbelief and adoration. He smiled at her and felt her spirits lift further. Hope was a dangerous thing, he knew, the burden of hers weighing heavy on him as she smiled tentatively back at him.

Growling in annoyance, Creed grabbed one of the barely protruding bones on the girl's arm and gave it a twist. She cried out, writhing against him, even going so far to smack Creed with her fists. He ignored her, squeezing her tightly against him until the other protruding bones on her body ground against him. He seemed oblivious to the gouge of bone in his own flesh as he ruthlessly twisted the spur on her arm, laughing as he held Remy's angry gaze.

"So ya like ugly mutie trash like this then, do ya?" Creed twisted harder. The piece of bone finally broke away with a sickening crack. The girl – Sarah – cried out as blood oozed sluggishly from the place it had been; less than he'd feared, but her eyes were still glazed with pain. His hands tightened on his bo but he held himself still, forced himself to watch her – horror seemed to have become a part of her that she was resigned to. Remy glared narrowly at Sabretooth, at the fragile girl in his hands, at the bloody stump of bone.

"Get the point, Gambit?" the big man said, grinning to show his teeth before he tossed the fragment aside. "Do the man's job right this time or I break a few more of her bones. Maybe more of the ones that ain't so ready to go – hear me?"

"Oui," Remy growled, meeting Sarah's eyes. Glazed with pain as they were, she still stared at him like he was an angel, her expression pinched with mingled desperation, fear and a hope that leaped dangerously high as she absorbed his meaning. Then he firmed up his mental shields again, blocking her hope out. "Gambit bring him what he wants."

\- - to be continued - -


End file.
